Apprentice

by melody_of_the_nightshade

Summary:

After some unfortunate events, Will becomes an apprentice at the Council of magicians.
He didn't want this.
Not at all.
...
Although learning high level magic isn't that bad.
And maybe his master, Locke, isn't as terrible as he first appeared?
...Or is he actually worse?

***
In the beginning, I disguise this work as if there's a plot or some kind of worldbuilding, but really the goal is just to have some magical d/s romance. I feel even a bit guilty about it. Sorry.
***
Edit:
Soooo much plot. Now I'm feeling guilty about that. Sorry!
***

Chapter 1: Forgotten Legends

Notes:

WARNING:
It has been a long time already that I should have put something like this here. This story ended up being much longer and more plot-heavy than I originally intended, and now it’s not the short, light-hearted fun I thought it would be.
THE CONSENT HERE IS VERY MUDDY. There’s power imbalance, and corporal punishment coming from an authority figure. Also a slow-burn relationship with that authority figure. There will be genuine care and love, and Will *could* stop everything if he really wanted to, but still—take care while reading ❤️

It should have been a simple errand, one I have done plenty of times before. A day's riding into the town, a night in the temple, then go to the library, hand over and bring the books, maybe steal a few while doing so, then head back to the monastery, another day of solitary riding through the gorge. The monks have taken me along on these trips for many years, and since I was a bit older I have been allowed to go by myself. I always liked coming along before, but I absolutely loved coming on my own now. I couldn't show it, of course, so I feigned reluctance, which made some of the monks to advocate even more for me to do the job. 

Everything went well for a while. I left the monastery on the back of the grey horse, finally breathing in freely the cool, pine-scented air of the forest. The bag with the books was strapped to my back, along with the list written by the high priest to the town librarian. The forest was quiet, only with the rare sounds of a bird or an animal. I moved more slowly between the high walls of the gorge, carefully leading the horse around the fallen rocks in the bed of the stream. But later, on the open plain, leaving the mountains behind me, with only the river roaring on my left and an endless band of forest stretching out to the right, I took the horse into a gallop at last. The wind swept back the locks of brown hair from my face, fluttered my cloak wildly, and drowned out all other noises except the pounding of my horse's hooves. I galloped until I felt the horse getting tired under me (he was used to agricultural work, long, steady, but slow), and then I moved on at a comfortable pace. The sun was setting when I turned in at the foot of a hill, behind which the walls of the town could be seen in the distance. 

It was totally dark when I arrived at the gates. If I hadn't had the scroll with the high priest's seal and signature, they probably wouldn't have let me in. This way, the guard sullenly opened the gate. The night was still far away from the town, the streets crowded with people on their way home, doing their last errand or heading to a pub. I walked my way through the narrow, winding streets, now familiar to me, to the temple in the heart of the city. 

The master of the temple never really liked me. He was called something like Hull of Gull or Rull, I never could remember, so I just called him Dull in my mind. "Something's not right with this boy," he muttered every time when I came here before with one of the monks, mostly with Fhearnan, "something I really don't like". I couldn't tell him he could keep what he liked and what he didn't to himself, so I mostly just glared at him, while Fhearnan did the talking. We haven't talked much more even since I started coming here alone. I knocked, he opened the door, I handed over the letter from Fhearnan, he read it with a frown, then let me in and led me down to the chambers. The chambers I got were in a decidedly worse condition than those he used to give to Fhearnan. 

"Thank you", I said anyway. He nodded, and left me alone. 

Everything was still fine the next morning. I got dressed, strapped the books up on my back, thanked Dull for the poor breakfast (much poorer than what he would have given Fheranan), then headed to the library. 

The librarian liked me, which was a nice change compared to most people. She was an incredibly old woman, her hair snow white, her skin full of wrinkles, but her back still straight, showing her full height, still taller than me. I think maybe I was unable to hide my fascination with books, and she was unable to dislike someone who she shared a passion with. I felt really bad for stealing from her library, but I still did it, after exchanging the letters and the books sent and asked for from the monastery.

Everything went still well as I was walking back to the temple, with the new books strapped to my back, sent to the monastery for copying or for renovation, along with the money for the services. 

That's when I entered the market. It was the usual, weekly market of the town, lots of vendors, counters full of wares, and colours, smells, customers everywhere. I wandered between the counters, looking probably with quite big eyes at the abundance of the merchandise. It was a fairly wealthy town, with enough well-fed rural magicians to easily maintain safety and prosperity, while I was living in a monastery tucked away in the mountain, secluded, led by strict and ascetic monks, who lived for prayer and for work and for being bored. Pushing my way through the crowd, I found myself in front of the bookseller's stand. It was a wrong decision, being there. I didn't have any money, just the coins from the librarian, and those I had to give to Fhearnan. 

There were magicians among the customers. A younger woman had just purchased a small volume bound in lightly coloured linen, and from the quick glance I could cast at the cover, I guessed it was some potion book with recipes for medical purposes. The man behind the stand was selling all kinds of books, small or big or simple or so ornate that the decoration must have cost a fortune itself, brand new books and - and then, looking at a pile of older volumes, I saw a copy of Forgotten Legends , a thick collection of old stories, bound in green leather, and I just knew that I definitely have to get it.

It was a bad idea. So bad. But even as a child I always wanted to read this book, since the day I flipped through the pages once, sitting under a desk, hiding, with the book from a forbidden shelf in my lap. I was completely blown away by the illustrations, some of them huge and beautiful and like you're glimpsing into another world, and some of them sad and gruesome and painful to even look at. But I had no money. And, even more, you couldn't just buy any book about magic. Books were highly valued, and to purchase or lend one from a library, you had to be able to prove that you are a sufficiently trained magician to be allowed to own and read it. Officially, I wasn't even a magician, let alone trained at all. 

I took a deep breath and flicked a finger. There was some disturbance at the other end of the stand, a few books falling to the paved ground. The loud crowd of the customers tried to pull back in a hurry, people stepping on each other's feet, trying to catch and protect the books, looking around, bewildered. 

I quietly pulled the Forgotten Legends out of the pile, slipped it under my cloak, and was gone.

At least, I wanted to be gone, really wanted, but someone grabbed my wrist and held it in a steel-hard grip, making me unable to escape. It was bad enough, but it got definitely worse when my gaze travelled from the strong and elegant fingers gripping my wrist to an arm wrapped in a black jacket and up to the most handsome face I had ever seen. 

"How dare you, boy?" he growled, an angry frown over his dark eyes.

That "boy" felt quite offensive. Yes, he was older than me, by at least ten years (or a hundred; with a magician, you could never really tell), but still. I wasn’t a child.

And it could still get worse. I thought he was going to make me return the book and call the city guard on me, but instead, taking advantage of the confusion around the bookseller, he forcefully dragged me away until we reached a narrow, deserted side street. 

"Let me go!" I tried to yank my wrist out of his grip, but it was as if he hadn't even felt it. 

"Using magic for stealing," he hissed in my face, voice tight with anger. 

"Let me go," I repeated.

"No," he said briefly, and while still holding me adamantly, he reached into his inside pocket and took out a vial full of some golden powder. My eyes widened, and, hurriedly scanning his clothes, I realised he was wearing the uniform of the Council, with a burgundy badge on his chest, depicting the Torch of Enlightenment, the ancient symbol of the Council: a torch ablaze with magical fire, representing the Council's pursuit of knowledge, enlightenment, and the responsible use of magical power. He was a member of the Council, probably someone from high rank. I felt my stomach drop. 

"Have you ever travelled by Auric Dust?" he asked. 

'I can't." I turned away, trying to free myself with renewed strength. "I'm not a magician."

"Don't lie to me. You are radiating magic."

"I'm telling you, I'm not a magician. Let me go!"

"You are going to stand in front of the Council for this," he announced, opening the vial, and dipping one finger into the fine, golden dust. He pulled me closer in a violent tug, and smeared some of the powder on my forehead, in a horizontal line. "As you first travel by Dust, don't be alarmed if you feel dizzy or nauseous. But I highly recommend that you stop tugging on my hand, because if I let you go right in the middle of the trip, you'd end up lost in nothingness. Understood?" His gaze was cold and non-forgiving. 

 

I had all these terrible visions about standing before the Council, but the truth is that before that they just threw me in jail and seemed to forget about me for days. I sat on the cold stone in my tiny, cold cell, and tried to get rid of my thoughts. The monks, waiting for my return, and slowly realising that I'm not gonna arrive. Maybe a few of them would be even relieved - not everyone supported the high priest's decision to let me stay in the monastery, ten years ago, and probably even some of the supporters have changed their minds since then. But what will happen in front of the Council? Is stealing a book really such a big problem? I could definitely get into even bigger trouble, if certain questions arise. 

They asked me a lot of things before tossing me into this cell, but I answered nothing. They said something like “maybe a few days in a cell would change your mind,” and then they locked me in, even though I said “it won’t change my mind, you idiots”. 

I tried to escape, once, and I even managed to get out of my cell and around a few guards, but I didn't have an actual plan for what to do when I finally, inevitably, met them, and when this happened, they brought me back to my cell, reinforcing the guards. . 

A few days later a guard with a bored face led me to the Council Chamber. There were maybe two dozen men and women, sitting high up, in a raised platform forming half a circle. I could see the man who caught me in the market, sitting high up on my right, and then he rose up, and told the dear assembled Council Members about my crimes. 

It was loud. I thought there would be calm, measured and cold discussions, dispassionate decisions about my fate, but it seemed the Council Members were completely outraged by my actions. I slowly realised that not the stealing of the book, and not even the foolishly stupid attempt at escape was their real problem. 

"In the middle of a town market, full of magical and non-magical people!" shrieked a tall and bony, white-faced man with long, matt grey hair.

"It was the simplest of spells." I really didn't understand what was the big deal. 

"Using magic for law-breaking, that is what forced magicians to live in darkness and suffer for centuries!" he shouted. "Using our privileged power for deception, fraud ans petty theft!"

"Well, yes, me stealing a book, that's gonna cause magicians to live in darkness for another few centuries, sure," I nodded. 

It was a mistake, which I realised quickly. The shouting broke out again, and the Head of the Council, a (seemingly) middle aged woman named Ashmore, let it unfold for a while. 

Later, they sent me out of the Chamber. The bored-faced guard stood by me, and I wondered whether under that bored expression he was a skilled magical fighter, or I'm not that big of a threat, and he was just a mediocre magician who is actually bored to death by his job. We had to wait for an eternity, so if not so anxious about my foreboding future, I would have bored myself to death too. 

"The Council has made its decision," said Ashmore, her steady voice filling the whole Chamber, when I stood once again before them. "Twenty five councillors are present today, in the hearing and trial of William Alden, who was accused of misuse of magic and the theft of a valuable and confidential book. The pursuer is Councillor Ellis Locke, responsible for Magical Artefact Authentication. In this solemn moment, let us take a moment to reflect on the principles that guide us.” What? Now? I stood from one foot to the other, looking up at their faces. Most of them didn’t seem to be happy. I realised now that Locke seemed to be one of the youngest among them. Now he looked at me with a contemplative, curious face. “We are the guardians of magic, the stewards of its extraordinary powers. As individuals chosen by fate to possess this gift, it is incumbent upon us to exercise it with the utmost care and restraint. We must strive for balance, for magic unbounded can sow chaos and destruction." It was hard not to roll my eyes, but, beginning to fear that in the end they would happen to sentence me to death, I managed to keep my face still, with a hopefully polite expression. "William Alden, please step forward."

A did, leaving the bored guard a few paces behind me. My legs felt a little weak. 

"It wasn't an easy task, reaching a settlement in your case. Please listen to the details. Straton," she gestured to the scribe sitting at the end of the platform, "you may."

The scribe was a young magician, maybe a few years older than me. He cleared his throat, then started to read a painfully long and detailed description of my actions and the Council's opinions about it. They also stated that I was uncooperative and withholding information about myself, even though I had said things I really didn't want to. When they asked about my age, I made a very quick calculation: magicians until the age of 21 must attend the Academy, the Council's school for magical youth. If I said a number under 21, the sentence would be less severe, but they will send me to the Academy. Over 21 the verdict could be more heavy, but maybe I could walk away earlier. I said 21, and the scribe now read it aloud, along with every other information (not much) which they had about me. Even believing I'm 21, they still considered me quite young: magicians lived longer than non-magical people. They knew I never attended the Academy, which was suspicious enough (but not the subject of this trial). The scribe went on to detail my heinous deeds at the town market, and they even included that I was disrespectful toward Locke (who didn't even state his name that day), then he continued with my absurd idea of escaping from the Council's prison. I felt the top of my cheeks turning red, hearing about my poor attempt in this cool, dispassionate voice. 

Then he reached the end, and there was silence in the chamber, for a long time, longer than it could be possibly comfortable for anyone. 

"And," I heard my voice, too small in the big chamber, knowing that I shouldn't speak without being asked, not in front of all these people looking at me with frowns and disapproving looks, "what is the decision?"

Ashmore gave me a reproachful stare, while a few other Councillors murmured angrily around her. 

"You have to make a decision," she said at last. "You are untrained, behind with years in your magical education. Your actions were irresponsible, unbecoming and shameful. Still, we are making you an offer that others, much older and much more qualified, are struggling for." There was a little discontent grumbling around her, and I knew, whatever this offer might be, that not everyone agreed with it. "We are not blind, and we see the potential in a young man, even when he makes embarrassingly wrong decisions. So, our first suggestion: as punishment for your actions, you could be sentenced for a public flogging, here in the Citadel, before the Council and the assembled magicians."

I had to swallow. 

"And the other option?"

"You can take an oath to become an apprentice of one of our Councillors. Apprenticeship traditionally lasts for nine years, and requires serious, diligent, dedicated work and study."

It was clear on the faces who supported this idea and who did not. I wondered how these few people convince the others. Indeed, it was unheard of - even I, living as far away from the Council as I could, knew that becoming an apprentice takes years of learning even after the Academy, and only a few, the most ambitious, go and try for it. I was totally unfit for an apprentice.

"I see," I said, carefully. "How many lashes? If I chose the first option."

Something flickered through Ashmore's strict face, something I could not make any sense of. 

"A hundred," she said. 

I stared at her. 

"You can choose," she added casually.  

It was unbelievable. I didn't exactly know what a flogging looked like, but I knew very well that with a whip cruel enough, you could kill a grown man with a hundred lashes. I stared at them, the solemn, angry, disapproving, thoughtful faces high up on the platform, cold and unfamiliar, and suddenly I felt very lonely. 

"I take the second option, then" I said quietly, but my voice still echoed in the huge chamber. I let my head hang, and put my hands behind my back, after all the monks had a lot of work in teaching me self-discipline. "I gratefully thank the Council for the opportunity."

"Very well," said Ashmore, a bit smugly. "Your new master, Councilor Locke, will familiarise you with the details."

Chapter 2: Sanctum

A few times, a long, long time ago, I had been to the Citadel before. I could recall fragments of these grand halls and the wide, bright corridors adorned with paintings and tapestries that told tales from the magicians' history. But most vividly, I remembered the constant, low hum of magic emanating from the walls, resonating deep in my bones and reverberating with my heartbeats, quite rapid now, as I followed Locke along the corridors.

I’ve been to the Citadel before, but of course never in the Sanctum, the ancient and secret, secluded buildings for the Councillors. 

A huge garden sprawled between the Citadel and the Sanctum. We had quite an impressive garden at the monastery, too, yet there was no comparing it to this. I stared wide-eyed at all the plants here: trees looking a thousand years old, flowers blooming in colours I have never seen before, archways formed from branches over meandering paths shadowed by silver canopies. I caught a glimpse at a stone statue in the middle of an emerald green pond. There was a huge silence over us, despite the melodious songs of some birds and the babbling of a stream somewhere. 

“Keep up,” urged the impatient voice of Locke, who had already disappeared around a corner, behind tall bushes with some unknown mallow fruit growing on them. I almost tripped over a root as I hurried after him, and he gave me a disapproving look, but continued his way without other words.

Entering the Sanctum felt like stepping into the past. While there were similarities with the Citadel, such as the tall, arched windows and stone walls, everything here seemed so much more ancient. There was a great hall by the entrance, and I could see staircases and a huge open door leading to an ornate hall, but Locke kept such a fast pace that I barely had time to look around, and we were soon rushing along a narrow, dimly lit corridor with grumpy, ancient magicians following us with their gazes from the uncountable portraits hanging on the walls. 

“Who were all these people?” I asked, slowing my steps in front of a painting depicting a terribly old man wearing a perplexing purple cape. 

“Keep up,” Locke said. 

“But…”

“Keep up.”

I hastened to catch up with him, and we continued our journey in silence, taking stairs and twisting through new passageways. I tried to remember all the turns we took, but it was hard to concentrate when there were so many interesting things around us: in addition to the paintings, there were windows looking at small gardens or rooftops or streets, and there were cabinets lining the corridors, and there were closed doors, and also a few open doors, but Locke just went on, not leaving me time to look around properly. 

Finally, we climbed a spiral staircase, the steps high but wide, and ended up in front of a dark wooden door, with the name Ellis Locke and Magical Artefact Authentication written on a small plaque. He opened the door, and we stepped into a room that appeared to be his office. A fairly big writing desk occupied the centre, and sunlight streamed in through narrow and tall windows. There was a fireplace, now empty, and a few comfortable-looking armchairs in front of it, and a big, dark blue, soft-looking carpet in the middle of the room. The opposite wall was full of towering bookcases, from the floor all the way up to the ceiling, housing probably thousands of books. There were huge books bound in dark leathers, and small ones, some looking old and others looking brand new, and I could almost read a few titles and-

“Eyes on me, boy,” he snapped. “Don’t you even imagine getting close to my books.”

He stepped behind his desk, and shook one of the bells standing on the corner of his table - it had no sound at all -, and beckoned me to the chair across from the table. I sat down a bit warily, now that there was nothing to really distract me from the reality happening. 

“I didn’t want an apprentice,” he stated. I had guessed , I thought, but stayed silent. “Especially not one who had just stood before the Council for improper use of magic. You are too young to be an apprentice. Unfit. Untrained. All your fellow apprentices are probably years ahead of you in their training. How many years of official training do you have?”

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. 

“Well?” he pressed.

“Well, none?” 

He heaved a big sigh. 

“All right. In the next two weeks I’m going to spend my time assessing your skills. I have to travel after that, for an important task, and you will train with the other apprentices.”

“Where are you travelling?”

“That’s not your business.”

“Couldn’t I go with you?”

“No.”

“Wh-”

“Silence. You are to show respect to me, to the Councillors and to your fellow apprentices. Any display of disrespect or disobedience will not be tolerated. As my apprentice, you are to be disciplined, obedient, and dedicated. Magic is a serious responsibility, and I have little tolerance for recklessness or insubordination.”

“I can see that,” I muttered cautiously. This was not going to be easy. 

I could see that he wanted to scold me, but someone knocked on the door then, and after a long and hard look at me, he called “Come in!”, and I turned back to see a young man in a servant's uniform, probably around my age, enter the office.

“Escort William to his chambers. He is my new apprentice,” Locke told him, without wasting even another glance at me. The boy seemed surprised, but cleared his face quickly. “Let him bathe and bring him some new clothes. I don’t want to see my apprentice this dirty and tattered ever again. Then escort him back here…” he reached into his pocket, pulled out a pocket watch and glanced at it thoughtfully, “exactly at eleven o’clock.”

“Yes, Councillor,” said the boy with a slight bow. 

“And you, boy,” Locke turned back to me, “if you are late that will be completely your fault. It is important for you to know that I value punctuality. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to teach you how to address me properly.”

“No need, master,” I said, standing up. “I know perfectly well how to address you properly.”

I left quickly, letting the stunned boy hurry after me. 

“You can’t talk to him like that,” he whispered hastily when the door closed behind him. 

“Why not?” I asked, shrugging, pretending to be at ease. 

“You just… just… don’t!” He hurried before me, leading the way down the stairs. “He is a Councillor! You can’t talk to him like that.”

“What would happen if I did talk to him like that?”

“Well, then… I don’t know, because of course no one ever talks to him like that!”

“What’s your name?”

“Finnian.” We arrived at the bottom of the stairs and turned left. “I didn’t know Councillor Locke was going to have an apprentice.”

“I don't think anyone knew until this morning,” I said, wondering how I even managed to get in this situation. “But anyway, nice to meet you, Finnian. You are not a magician, right?”

“I’m not.”

“But have you been working here for a long time?”

“Seven years.”

“So you know your way around here pretty well.”

We turned into another small corridor, dimly lit by some small windows with barely transparent glass panels. 

“Well, it can be said. But I work only for Councillor Locke.”

“Do you accompany him on his travels, too?”

“Most of the time.”

“So you must know so many things about him! Do you know where he will be travelling in two weeks?”

He glared at me from the corner of his eyes.

“Nice try, but I can’t tell you, sorry.”

“So you know, then.”

“I help him prepare for his journeys,” he shrugged, pulling a bunch of keys out of his pocket. 

“And you are loyal,” I added slowly. 

“I am. I like working for him. He is fair and kind.”

“He doesn’t seem very kind to me.”

“I told you not to talk to him like that! Of course he wouldn't be kind to you.” 

We stopped in front of a door, and after a bit of searching he found the right key and opened the door with a loud creak. We stepped into a room, quite spacious, with simple, but elegant furniture. It was dark, the curtains closed, and you could see the floating dust in the sunlight streaming in through the gap in the curtain. 

“Sorry,” said Finnian, “No one told me to prepare your room.” He quickly opened the curtains, then turned left and stepped to a door. There was a small bathroom behind it. “You could start with a bath. You can warm up your water, right?” 

“Yes,” I said. 

“Good. Then it should be all right.” He took a few steps to one of the cabinets, while I walked to the window. “Here’s some soap and towels. It won’t be your best bath, but you can make yourself a bit cleaner at least.” My window opened to the garden between the Citadel and the Sanctum. We were maybe on the second or the third floor, and there were huge trees in front of me, and I could see one with white leaves and another which had leaves that looked sharp as knives, and even through the closed window I could hear them quietly rattling in the wind. 

“William? Are you all right?”

“Hm?”

“I was talking to you.” He seemed a bit offended, and I felt strangely bad about it. He was now on the other side of the room, making the bed. 

“Sorry.”

“It’s all right. I was saying that you should maybe go bathing. Councillor Locke really wouldn’t like it if you are late.”

“Did this room belong to someone?” I asked, looking at the dusty furniture and the empty walls. 

“Not in the time I’m here,” he said, fluffing up the pillows on the bed. “Councillor Locke had no apprentice before.”

“I don’t understand why,” I muttered.

“He will be a great master,” Finnian stated. “He is one of the most powerful magicians on the Council.”

“He told you that?”

Finnian went a bit red, not looking up from the bedding he was arranging on the bed.

“No,” he said finally. “Although I am not a magician, I do recognize great power.”

“Sorry,” I said again. “Then tell me, what is the quickest way to get on his nerves?”

He put down the last pillow, straightened up and looked at me with his hands on his hips.

“Why would you ever want to get on his nerves intentionally ? Do you not want to be an apprentice?”

“I’m not sure I want to,” I said, turning back to the window.

“I’m bringing you some clothes,” he said. “Please start your bath or you will really be late.”

 

In the end, I was indeed quite late. I couldn’t decide if it was intentional or not. I was still standing by the window when Finnian arrived with the clothes. He urged me into the bathroom, and then knocked on the door many times for me to hurry up. I took my time with the bath, but then realised maybe being late on my first day wouldn’t be such a good idea, especially after being explicitly told not to, so I hurriedly put on my clothes and Finnian was almost running as he led me back through the maze of the corridors to Locke’s office. 

When we arrived at his door, I hesitated, collecting my composure, my heart pounding in my chest, probably partly because we were hurrying so much, but also because I was quite nervous. Finnian huffed, stepped before me with an exasperated look on his face and promptly knocked on the door. I looked at him slightly indignantly, but we had no time left, because a voice said “Come in!”, and Finnian opened the door and stepped in. 

“I’m really sorry, Councillor Locke,” he said, bowing his head. 

“I told him it will be his fault,” Locke waved. “You can go now. Thank you.”

“Thank you, Councillor Locke.” He turned, and with a quick glance at me he was out of the door, closing it behind me and forcing me to leave my comfortable spot on the threshold and to step into the room.  

Locke sat behind his desk, his expression stern and unyielding, his disapproval evident on his face.

“You are late,” he stated. 

“I know,” I said. 

He sighed, not taking his cold eyes off me. 

“Let’s try this again,” he said. “ I say that you are late, and what do you say then?”

“I’m sorry, master.”

“Right. Sit down, please.”

I already started to hate that chair, although it was quite nice, made from some dark wood, the seat covered in soft blue fabric. I sat down reluctantly. 

“Punctuality is crucial, William. It's a reflection of your commitment and respect for your studies. We can't afford any laxity in our magical training."

“I’m sorry,” I repeated. 

“You will be forgiven,” he nodded, “but as a consequence, you are restricted from entering the library.”

I blinked in surprise, unable to conceal my dismay. What?

“I’m sorry… what?”

“You are restricted from entering the library,” he repeated in a firm tone. “This includes the Arcane Archives here in the Sanctum, and also the public library in the Citadel, but I don't need to highlight this, since you are not allowed to leave the Sanctum.

“I’m not allowed to leave the Sanctum? Why?” My heart sank at the thought. “Am I a prisoner now?”

“You are not a prisoner. However, as my apprentice and my responsibility, I will not allow you to wander freely until I am confident that you will not bring shame upon yourself, me, or the magical community. You will stay in the Sanctum, and you will stay in your room if I see necessary.”

“That’s like being a prisoner,” I muttered. 

“All right, William,” he sighed, “we can have this conversation now if you would like. I am your master, and you will abide by my decisions. Discipline is crucial in magic.” Locke's gaze bore into mine as he continued, his voice unwavering. “Without discipline, you risk not only your own safety but the safety of others. You must learn to follow rules and respect authority. As my apprentice, you are held to a high standard.”

I nodded, not trusting myself to say anything out loud from my thoughts. 

“Now, let me make myself perfectly clear,” Locke said, his voice carrying an edge of sternness that sent a shiver down my spine. "Any further disobedience or disrespect will result in harsher consequences. I find that restricting your privilege to visit the library could be an effective way to help you to follow my rules. But you may also find yourself confined to your room, where you will be expected to meditate and reflect on your actions.”

I nodded again. Suddenly I felt really homesick for the monastery. 

Locke leaned forward, his eyes locked onto mine. “And make no mistake, William, if I deem it necessary for your proper training, I will not hesitate to have you locked away in a cell as a form of punishment. Then you will really know what it is like to be a prisoner.”

I gulped, anger rising in my chest.

“I was a prisoner for the last seven days,” I said, my voice full of rude mockery. 

Locke's stern expression didn't waver, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes, a hint of surprise at my response.

"You were a prisoner because of your own actions," he retorted sharply, his tone unwavering. "And you will remember the consequences of your reckless use of magic. It's not something I take lightly."

I clenched my fists, struggling to maintain my composure. 

"I understand," I replied, my voice strained. 

Locke leaned back in his chair, his gaze still fixed on me. "Very well. We will begin your training immediately.” He motioned to a stack of books on the edge of his desk. “These are basic books about advanced magic, and, if you had had proper training, you should have read them all by now. Let’s start with this.” He reached out, took the first book from the stack, and handed it to me. I leaned forward with a mixture of wariness and curiosity to take the book from his hand.

It was big and heavy, bound in dark green linen, and it seemed unfamiliar at the first glance, but a rush of relief filled me when I read the title. It was The Art of Enchantment from Theory to Practise by Elara Thistledown. I read a different edition, but I read it many times. 

Locke nodded, seeing my reaction. "Good, you are familiar with this one. What can you tell me about the book? What are its core principles?"

“Well, it’s about the fundamental theories and practical applications of enchantment magic.” This was good. I could feel my voice getting more and more determined. I can speak about books . “It covers the principles of imbuing objects with magical properties or creating protective wards. There’s also a big part about the ethical considerations of enchantment, emphasising the responsibility that comes with manipulating the magical forces.”

Locke nodded, his face not showing any sign that he was satisfied with my answer or not. He just handed me the next book, a smaller volume with black leather cover. It was Celestial Harmonies by Alistair Morgan. 

“I know this” I said, some enthusiasm creeping into my voice. “It’s about the principles of harmonising with celestial energies, doesn't it?”

“It is,” he nodded. “It explores the intricate interplay between celestial bodies and the flow of aether. A crucial aspect of magic that many novices overlook. Tell me, what insights have you gained from this book?”

“Well, Morgan emphasises the importance of understanding the celestial rhythms and their influence on our magical abilities. There are ways collected in the book about how to harness these energies to enhance our spells, particularly in divination and celestial magic.”

Locke listened intently as I spoke about Celestial Harmonies. There was a silence that hung in the air, and I couldn't quite read his expression. Had I said something wrong?  

Finally, Locke broke the silence, his voice measured. “That’s a decent overview, but let's dive deeper. Celestial magic is more intricate than just understanding rhythms and harnessing energy. Can you explain the concept of celestial sigils as detailed in the book?”

I hesitated for a moment, my mind racing to recall the specifics. “Of course,” I replied, trying to sound confident. “Morgan discusses the creation of celestial sigils, which serve as conduits for celestial energy. These sigils are geometric patterns that act as a… a bridge between the caster and celestial bodies? Allowing for a more direct channelling of celestial energy into spells.”

He nodded, motioned for me to put the book down, and handed me the next one. It was so heavy I almost dropped it, the title pressed deeply in the leather cover: Sigilcraft , and the subtitle below this in smaller letters: Crafting Symbols of Power . I have heard about this book, containing all the basic knowledge about sigils. I may have considered reading it a few times, but I always ended up putting it back on the shelf, unread, while lurking in the town library. I knew it was important, but I never found sigils interesting enough to open the book.

“Well?” Locke asked. 

“I haven’t read this.”

Locke's expression remained impassive as he observed my face. He didn't react immediately, and in the end, I turned my gaze away. 

“Have you come across this book before?”

“Well, I…” I was observing one of the sturdy legs of his desk.

“Have you or have you not?”

“I have.”

“But you didn’t have the opportunity to read it.”

“Well, I…”

Well, I haven't technically had the opportunity to read any of the books I've ever read about magic.

“Have you or have you not?”

“I...I don’t find sigils particularly engaging.”

"You haven't read Sigilcraft ," he repeated, his tone measured. "Despite its fundamental importance in magical practice, because you don’t find sigils particularly engaging ?”

“Yes,” I muttered.

“Magical proficiency isn't built solely on what we find engaging, William. It's about mastering all aspects of the craft. Sigilcraft is the foundation of many advanced spellcasting techniques. Without a thorough understanding of sigils, you will be handicapped in your magical development.”

“I know,” I said through clenched teeth. I have a huge handicap in my magical development, caused by the fact that everything I learned about magic I learned in secret, you idiot.

I was not looking at him, but his voice sounded a bit softer when he next spoke.

“Let’s have a look at the next book.”

He handed me a volume I instantly recognized: it was The Book of Shadows , one of my favourites. It was an old copy, the pages frailing at the edges, and I could feel a low hum of the magic radiating from it as I ran my fingers over the cover. 

“Are you familiar with this one?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said shortly, not wanting to show any more emotions. 

“Tell me about it.”

I flipped through the pages, my fingers tracing the ornate illustrations and intricate diagrams that filled its contents. I tried to keep my voice neutral. “It’s about ancient legends, forgotten folklore, and hidden spells. It's about the magical past, and about the mysteries of the old magics.” I flipped a few pages, letting my gaze linger on the illustrations. “It makes you feel like you're right there, standing beside the sorcerers of old times as they perform these incredible spells now long forgotten. Here’s the tale of the Whispering Woods!” I exclaimed as I turned another page. “It's a magical forest inhabited by sentient trees and mischievous spirits! And the magicians back then could form this connection with the forest, that…”

I trailed off. Locke observed my enthusiasm with a raised eyebrow, his lips curved in a hint of amusement. It was evident that my affection for the book intrigued him.

He took a moment before pressing further. “The Book of Shadows indeed encompasses ancient legends and spells. But its value extends beyond that. It emphasises the origins of magic and the responsibility that comes with wielding such power. What insights have you gained from its passages regarding the origins of our craft and the ethical use of magic?”

“It’s about the roots of our magic, tracing it back to the earliest practitioners.” I tried to choose my words wisely, afraid that my enthusiasm could have been interpreted as a lack of seriousness. I glanced at Locke, but his expression was unreadable. “It underscores the importance of ethical considerations, that magic is a force that must be harnessed with great care and responsibility."

“Go on,” he urged.

“Well, it… it says that magic is a gift, one that should be used with care and mindfulness. It warns against using our abilities for selfish or malevolent purposes, as it can have dire consequences not only for us but for the world around us.”

“Exactly,” he nodded. “The importance of ethical considerations cannot be overstated. Magic, when misused, can inflict great harm.”

His words hung in the air, and I couldn't help but feel a growing discomfort. Locke's piercing gaze seemed to see through me.

“I must admit,” Locke continued, his tone careful, “I find it curious that someone who appreciates the ethical nuances of magic would employ their abilities in ways that conflict with those principles.”

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, my eyes avoiding his gaze. 

“Stealing, as a form of magical practice, is hardly in line with the book's teachings about responsible and ethical use of magic. Your actions are a direct contradiction to the principles outlined in this book. How do you reconcile this?”

“Well, I-”

He sighed, and I looked up to see his face softening a bit. 

“Your understanding of the book's teachings is commendable. But magic is a tool, William. How it's wielded depends on the intentions of the person who wields it. You have a choice: to continue down a path that compromises your principles or to redirect your abilities toward a more noble purpose.”

“But I don’t really have a choice, have I now?” I muttered. He raised half an eyebrow with a questioning look on his face. “I mean as your apprentice. You can just lock me in a cell if I might choose the wrong path.”

“Well, yes,” he nodded, and I could have sworn I saw a hint of a smile in the corner of his mouth. His eyes were so dark it was a bit hard to look at him directly. “But remember, that even within the confines of the Sanctum, you have choices. I agreed to take you as my apprentice because I believe in your potential. You have a strong aptitude for magic, and with proper guidance, you can become a responsible and skilled practitioner.”

“Really?”

He chuckled. Why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut?

“Really. Well, with hard work and proper conduct, as I said before. Let’s look at the other books now, shall we?”

In the end, there was a stack of twelve books I had read before, and five more books were shoved into my hand, accompanied by an ominous threat that I had to read and learn them letter by letter within the next week. I felt that my knowledge in the more interesting areas of magic was not as deficient as my secret self-teaching would justify, but in other fields, like sigils, alchemy, or ritual magic, there were embarrassingly large holes in my knowledge. 

Locke appeared mostly as if he couldn't be less interested in teaching me, yet he invested an exhausting amount of time quizzing me about the contents of every single book. In the end he rang the silent bell again, summoning Finnian into the office, and instructed him to lead me back to my room.

“I suggest you start reading your books today,” he said. “We have a long day tomorrow and I want to see how you can put your magic into practice. You won't have much time to read, so try to use these opportunities to catch up on at least a little of your shockingly insufficient magical knowledge.”

“I will,” I muttered a bit darkly.

“Finnian will bring you some dinner. Stay in your room tonight.”

“All right,” I replied, even though it was just mid-afternoon, and the last time I had eaten was early in the morning, the terrible bread they had given me in my cell before the trial.

 

I tried to remember the route as we walked back to my room: down the spiral staircase, through the long, wide corridor, up a narrow, short staircase, through a passageway where the ceiling was so low I could easily touch it, and on to other narrow and winding corridors.

As before, the building appeared completely deserted this time too. 

“Where is everyone?” I asked Finnian, who was walking silently in front of me, dictating a fast but not hasty pace.

“The Sanctum is usually pretty empty,” he explained. “The Councillors are mostly working, sometimes in their studies, but also in the Citadel or other locations outside. The apprentices can be found mostly in the Archives or in the training area, or often they are accompanying their masters.”

“So no one will actually know if I'm not in my room?”

He gave me a questioning look over his shoulder.

“Apprentices typically dine in the Refectory at six o'clock, and afterward, they have some free time,” he said, ignoring my question. “That's when more people are usually around here. All the apprentices' rooms are located in this corridor.”

Only then did I notice that we were already in the corridor of my room. Finnian took out his keys and opened my door.

“By the way, why do you have a key to my room? Shouldn't you give it to me?”

“I shouldn’t”, he replied simply, holding the key in his hand while I balanced the stack of books. We were still standing in the open door.

“But why?” 

“These doors are locked magically,” he said, his voice somewhat forcedly patient. “Since I have no magical powers, I need a traditional key to open your door.”

“And how will I open my door?” 

“You could probably open it with some magic, but you shouldn’t, I think.”

“So I'll really be a prisoner here.”

“You are an apprentice,” he stated, with an incredulous frown on his face. “Especially, the apprentice of Councillor Locke! Isn’t that an incredible opportunity?”

I rolled my eyes at him. 

“I really don’t know,” I said. 

“I should let you study.” He nodded, stepped back, and gestured for me to step into the room. I complied, letting out a sigh as he closed the door behind me.

Chapter 3: Swordsmanship

Summary:

Maybe things are starting to happen.

Notes:

This is mostly about everyday life, setting in, and getting to know a few other characters.
I don't even know why are there other characters, because mostly I just wanna rush forward to the smutty parts.
I added slow burn.

Despite my initial admission that I understood little about apprenticeships, it soon became evident the following morning that my knowledge was even more limited than I had thought. 

The previous afternoon I wrestled with The Alchemical Equation , an ancient and cryptic alchemical text that felt like it was penned by a madman. In the evening Finnian bought me dinner, and I ate quickly and not very elegantly, my stomach growling loudly. By midnight, I'd somehow managed to claw my way through the third of that cursed book, although I barely understood half of its content. I slept for a few hours, tossing and turning and dreaming of alchemy experiments gone awry, only to wake up at dawn sweaty and curled up in my sheets.

A few hours and a few damned chapters later Finnian escorted me to the Refectory, and I realised that I hadn't even thought about meeting the other apprentices. If I had, I would have had time to worry about how it was going to turn out. But we just stepped into the Refectory, and there were like a dozen of other apprentices, and I turned to Finnian to ask him about what the hell am I supposed to do, only to realise that he had already disappeared. 

I ventured into the Refectory, my footsteps echoing in the spacious room. There were long wooden tables and high-backed chairs neatly arranged in rows, most of them empty now. The morning sunlight streamed in through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the floor. One of the tables was set, with toast, vegetables, eggs and biscuits on the white tablecloth. I made my way towards an empty chair at the edge of the table, not really able to decide whether I should look at anyone or not. 

In the end I kept my gaze lowered as I sat down and picked up a piece of toast. They went silent, and I couldn't shake the feeling that all eyes were on me.

A few minutes passed, and after a few whispers here and there I could hear the conversations around me slowly returning. People were laughing. Then, when I thought everything would be fine, someone pulled out the empty chair opposite me, scraping loudly on the floor, and sat down.

“Well, so the rumours are true,” he said. I looked up from my plate. He seemed a few years older than me, with black hair over his calculating eyes. He had a scar on his temple, a reddish, badly healed line.

“Rumours?”

“We heard there’s some little boy who got here by stealing a book.”

“Hm,” I said, and took a small bite from my toast.

“You know, it's funny,” he went on. “We've all worked so hard to earn our place here, to become apprentices through dedication and skill. Yet you managed to be here by being some petty criminal?”

“I’m not a criminal,” I said. I knew he was just trying to provoke me, but hell, maybe it worked. 

“They say you haven’t even attended the Academy. Is that true?”

“Who says that?”

He didn’t answer, just smirked and gestured around vaguely. I looked to the right, where the other apprentices were all watching us, motionless. They seemed mostly in agreement with him. 

“Did you really not?” he went on. 

“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

He exclaimed with a triumphant grin on his face. “I knew it! But really, how are you going to survive here without any basic knowledge? This is not some nursery.”

I turned my gaze back to my toast, ignoring him. There was silence for a moment, and then I heard the sudden buzz of magic, but before I could do anything or even fully realise what’s happening, the toast flew out of my hand, hit me on the nose and then fell to the ground.

“I was asking you a question,” he said, sneering, leaning closer so it was harder to avoid his gaze. 

“What do you want?” I asked. Now we were face to face, his eyes boring into mine, and I could see a muscle twitching below his left eye.

“I want you to know your place.”

And in the next moment there was magic clashing between us, and I could feel he was strong, but I could also feel the overwhelming joy and relief when I realised he was not that strong, and mostly when I could see on his face that he realised this, too. 

There were footsteps, then, and it took just a half moment longer for me to hear them. He let his magic go, and my power pushed him back, his chair clattering loudly on the hard floor, and he fell to the ground with a high, painful squeal.

Locke was standing in the door, his face unreadable. He was quite far away, and his voice echoed through the room, clear and definite. 

“What is happening here?”

The boy scrambled to his feet on the other side of the table.

“Councillor Locke,” he said hastily, adjusting the collar of his coat. “He attacked me without any reason!”

“Oh, shut up” I said, outraged, then turned back to Locke. “He started it.”

Locke ignored me completely. 

“Prescott, you are on cleaning duty in the laboratories this week.” The boy opened his mouth in shock, then closed it without a word. I would have been delighted to see his face like this, if I hadn't been in a similar situation myself. Locke jabbed his finger at me. “You come with me.”

I shot an angry look at the boy, apparently called Prescott, but  didn't dare look at the others. I avoided Locke's gaze, too, as I stormed out of the Refectory. 

 

 

“He started it,” I repeated.

I was sitting in the chair in front of his desk. He was standing behind it, the coat of his uniform unbuttoned, his white shirt smooth and immaculate underneath. He raised an eyebrow now, his gaze not leaving my face even for a second. 

“I don’t care,” he said, his voice carrying a heavy air of authority. “Your actions in the Refectory were unacceptable. The Sanctum is a place of discipline and self-control, and such behaviour will not be tolerated."

“He started it,” I repeated. 

“As an apprentice of the Council, you are expected to uphold our standards of behaviour, regardless of provocation.”

“I have no idea what’s happening here,” I said, getting more and more frustrated under his penetrating gaze. “I know nothing about being an apprentice. I don’t even want to be one.”

“I think the other option is still open,” he shrugged. “You can say you don’t want this, get your flogging and be on your way.”

“Yeah, if I survive, huh.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“That is not a death sentence, William. It’s a serious punishment - appropriate for your actions, I must say -, but you will live.”

Anger was rising in my chest, and it became more and more easier to stand his unbroken gaze, glaring back at him. 

“You think stealing a book is worth a hundred lashes?” I grumbled. 

“It could be two hundred if it were up to me.”

I blinked in shock, but he left it at that and moved to stand in front of one of the tall bookshelves. After a brief search, he retrieved a large, leather-bound volume and carefully set it down on the table in front of me. I glanced at the cover. 

“The Rulebook of the Council,” he said. “It contains the laws and regulations that govern our kind, and it is your responsibility to familiarise yourself with its contents thoroughly. I won't punish you this time, because although it should go without saying that we don't start magical fights at the breakfast table, you were not familiar with our rules yet.”

“This seems like quite a punishment,” I remarked, taking the heavy book in my hands. It was written in small letters, on delicate, well-worn pages. I couldn't help but wonder if Locke was so deeply fascinated by the rules that he himself had read the book to the point of fraying its edges.

“Get out,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “Wait for Finnian. He will accompany you to your room, then to a study chamber.”

I stood up with the book in my hand, stepping towards the door, unsure whether I should (or more likely if it would be wise to) say anything more.

In the end I didn’t, and the door to his study closed behind me with a soft noise. I hurried down the stairs. 

There was no sign of Finnian, and the corridors were as empty as anytime before. I looked around. I was sure my room was somewhere to the right, but I also knew that I didn't know the way. 

Not a bad opportunity .

I went left, down the long, straight corridor, the echo of my footsteps resonating in the silence. There were closed doors on both sides, and the only light here came from a few flickering lanterns. The silence was growing louder and louder. 

The walls were lined with these old paintings here, too. Most of them depicted long dead magicians, and their stern, disapproving gazes seemed to follow me, making my skin crawl. I wondered if all magicians would become this grumpy after a while. 

The portrait of that old magician with the purple cape creeped into my mind as I wandered on, turning into other corridors and climbing a few steps. It was like it burned into my mind, his gaze deeply unsettling. 

The corridor ended. A large window opened in front of me, another corridor started to the right, and a narrow set of stairs went down to the left. I looked around, but this part of the building still seemed completely deserted and silent. 

There was a square below outside the window. I saw narrow, winding streets and crowds of people in the small square where a market was being held. I wondered what would happen if I just ran away. Would the Council be looking for me? Definitely not - I can't be that important.

There were footsteps behind me and a loud, angry whisper:

“You can’t be here!” It was Finnian, waving his arms indignantly. “I was looking for you everywhere!”

“All I did was walk down this perfectly simple straight corridor,” I noted. 

“Please come with me,” he said, with a sudden pleading edge in his voice. “Councillor Locke won't be happy that I didn't escort you straight to your room.”

“Well, he won’t have to know about this” I shrugged, but I followed him back down the corridor. 

“Of course he will know about this,” he hissed. 

 

*

 

It soon became clear that studying with Locke is absolutely no fun. I’ve spent all my time in one of the study chambers, in his office or in the solitude of my room, reading all those books.

After enduring the torture of deciphering The Alchemical Equation , I discovered that not all of these books were so insufferable, actually.  Sigils were a big bore, too, but there were books about advanced elemental magic or the history of some lesser known magical practices, and those were in fact quite enjoyable. 

Every day, early in the morning, Locke called me to one of the study chambers where I had to perform various spells, and he watched closely and cruelly corrected any slight mistakes I might have made. In my opinion, while it’s true that there were some amazingly big holes in my magical knowledge, I wasn’t so terribly behind overall. I had a decent knowledge about animals and plants that possessed magical properties or abilities. I knew a lot about history, mythology and literature. I was familiar with a huge number of incantations, which you could easily learn from books.

Spellweaving, on the other hand, which required intricate hand motions, was quite hard to learn from books. There were subjects I couldn't get books on, and there were subjects I could have gotten books on, but I wasn't interested.

Locke shook his head and always expressed his disapproval when I didn't know something, but when I was good at other things, he didn't even react.

 

I rarely met the other apprentices, and most of them didn’t care much for me. There were sidelong glances and whispers, but I didn’t even speak with them, until, on my sixth day, Sol chose to sit across from me at the table.

“Good morning,” he greeted me. 

I was a bit wary, since the last time any of them spoke to me it was Gavin Prescott, starting a fight. 

“Good morning,” I said. 

“I think we would have been in the same year at the Academy,” he said. His tone was light, and he even smiled at me as he helped himself a plate of porridge.

“Well, I’m sure you already know I didn’t attend.” I didn’t even look up from my tea.

“And I’m sure you know that you have no friends here,” he said flatly. 

 

Sol helped me to understand a bit more about apprenticeship. He wore a dark green coat, just like me, indicating he was also in his first year, and he explained that you have to take complicated exams to get the other coats. He helped me learn my way around the Sanctum, explaining lengthy the number of storeys (even this was not simple) and the centuries long expansion of the building, which added newer and newer layers to the original structure. He mentioned there were even hidden or walled up corridors and halls, but he, of course, knew nothing about them. It quickly became apparent that he was a perfect model student, basically the embodiment of everything the Council expected from its apprentices. Despite this, he proved to be helpful and occasionally even funny. He knew stories about the Councillors, and though he never said anything disrespectful about either of them, he had a few interesting anecdotes. He pointed out that I wanted to conspicuously meet Locke's expectations, at which I protested indignantly, but he also pointed out that Locke was right in the library when I wanted to sneak in, despite the ban. 

I hadn't made any friends in the last ten years, and perhaps not even in my entire life, so this, too, was an entirely new experience for me.

 

“Tomorrow morning we are going to learn swordsmanship,” said Locke, while he was packing away the potion ingredients after our evening class.

“Swordsmanship?” I echoed. “Why does a magician need swordsmanship lessons?”

“It’s tradition for the apprentices, in addition to their magical education, to learn martial arts. You will receive training in weaponry, and tomorrow we will start with swords.” He put a tray of dried herbs into the cabinet, and closed the door. “Do you have any experience?”

“Well, I held a sword in my hand before, but… it was a long time ago.”

“We will see what you can do. Tomorrow morning, at half past six.”

 

“I value punctuality,” Locke said when I entered the training room, sneezing, sweeping aside the messy strands of hair from my face.

“It’s awfully early.”

“And I value good manners, too, you know.”

“Sorry,” I mumbled. 

He tossed a training sword in my hand, heavy, wooden and short. 

“We are going to focus on forms and stances now. They provide the structure and discipline you probably desperately need to excel in combat. Let’s see what you can do.”

It was almost a decade ago when I last held a sword in my hand. It felt strange, out of place. I really hoped I wouldn't make a fool of myself ( maybe Sol was right and I really want to prove myself? ), but then he put his coat aside and demonstrated the first form, a defensive posture with the sword flourished then held diagonally across the body, and I knew that I’m damned. He moved with grace and precision, his sword cleaving swiftly through the air. I tried to mimic the stance but felt awkward and uncoordinated.

“Pay attention,” he said. “This is not about flashy strikes or overpowering your opponent. It's about control, balance, and defence. Try again.”

He moved through a series of fluid motions, transitioning from one stance to another seamlessly. I tried to pay attention, I really did, but his shirt clung to his skin, accentuating the muscles in his arms and chest, and he seemed strong and commanding, while I hadn’t got the slightest idea which way I should swing my sword so as not to hit my head with it.

“Your sword should be an extension of your arm, an impenetrable barrier between you and your enemy. Your stance should be solid, your grip firm but not tense.”

Well, yeah. Firm but not tense. What does that even mean? I tried to step forward, but my other leg somehow got in the way and I tripped. 

"Your feet," he went on, "should be shoulder-width apart, providing a stable base. Distribute your weight evenly, and keep your knees slightly bent. This allows you to move swiftly and change direction when needed. And don’t put your leg forward when there’s absolutely no reason for it to be there. Again.”

My next attempt didn't seem so bad. The next few were slow and clumsy, but still better than the one after them when I managed to drop my sword.

“Pick it up,” he said, sighing. “Again.”

And we did it, again and again and again. He carried himself with unwavering confidence, and I saw clearly - again - that he was a force to be reckoned with. 

“Your left arm,” he was saying. “Is on the way again. You raise it up while turning, that’s while it gets in front of your sword. With a real sword you would have cut your arm off fifteen times already. Again.”

I found my gaze drawn to the lines of his arms, the strength evident in the way he held the weapon. My movements were correct now, albeit clumsy and insecure. 

“Pay attention,” he said, and now there was a slightly frustrated edge in his voice. “Try it slower. Left leg, knee bent, and now-”

I tripped, and at the same time I hit my left arm with the sword, again. He looked at me incredulously, put his sword down and crossed the distance between us with a few long steps. 

“You are not listening,” he snapped, grabbing my wrist and forcibly adjusting my grip on the sword. His fingers were strong and sure as they repositioned mine, wrapping around the handle. “When you step forward, keep this leg bent under yourself. It’s essential for balance and strength.” His leg nudged mine apart, widening my stance. I felt my face burn with embarrassment, and maybe with something else too, especially as his thigh brushed against mine. “And this arm is not raised up. If you wave it around like that, sooner or later someone will really cut it off. Back straight. Head up.” He tilted my chin up with a finger, forcing me to meet his gaze. His eyes bore into mine with an intensity that left no room for contradiction. "Don't you dare look away. Keep your focus, or you'll never survive a real fight."

I was breathing hard, my muscles aching. I tried to turn away, but he yanked my head back. 

“I will never fight with a sword in any battle,” I muttered. “The kingdom has been at peace for a hundred years.”

He huffed, and grabbed his own sword. His voice was low and chilly, his eyes narrow, gaze unyielding. 

“Again.”

Notes:

Please let me know what you think ^^

Chapter 4: Shadows in the Square

Summary:

I got a little carried away with the plot, but we are getting there slowly

“He hates me,” I whispered, sitting next to Sol in the alchemy lab. “I can’t do anything right.”

Sol didn't look up from his work, though he paused briefly as he measured out the spider tubules. “He's tough on everyone.”

“Yesterday he gave me a five minute lecture that I need to be sharp and focused at all times, and you know why? He said I was turning the pages too loudly! ”

“Well, yeah, he can be a bit demanding.” He poured the small heap of tubules into his cauldron, and the clear potion bubbled up, purple vapour rising from it.

There were five of us in the laboratory. I worked at a table with Sol, two small cauldrons in front of us. Councillor Stone left us the morning to study and prepare Veridian's Curseborne Infection Elixir, a powerful potion crafted to counteract the effects of a particularly virulent and magical strain of curseborne infection - at least that's what the textbook said. I had never heard of it before, and  half of the ingredients were also completely unknown to me, as well as most of the charms needed to make it. 

“Yeah,” I sighed. “He definitely hates me.”

“Maybe he sees something in you.” Sol was stirring his cauldon, and now I was glad that he wasn’t even looking at me, because I was afraid my cheeks might turn a bit red. I pretended to be busy with my cauldron, which was taking on a strangely dark hue despite containing only the first ingredient, a clear herbal solution prepared with Councillor Stone.

“What?”

“Well…” Sol sighed, finally setting aside his work to look at me. “They say you’ve got great power. That they wanted you to stay here so they could keep an eye on you.”

“On me?” I scoffed incredulously.

“On someone with so much magical power.”

“What? Who says that? That’s rubbish.”

“Maybe Locke sees potential in you. Maybe he pushes you so hard because he believes you can handle it.”

“He never suggested he believes I’m capable of anything.”

“Well. Maybe… Will, everyone can see the tension between the two of you. There are rumours-

“Wh- What?”I scrambled to find the right page in my book. “That’s not like that. Let’s focus on the lesson, shall we?”

“I am trying to focus on the lesson.”

I glanced down at the list of the ingredients, written in so small letters they were hardly readable. Even the words I could decipher were meaningless to me.

“Could you help me, please?” I muttered. 

Sol was patient and good at potions, but it was soon evident that there were some huge problems with the leisurely bubbling concoction in my cauldron. Sol added in a few more ingredients, performed some spells, but he just furrowed his brows more and more and turned the pages forth and back in his book, sending confused glances at the muddy, dark green liquid that was supposed to be my Veridian's Curseborne Infection Elixir. 

“What did you put in this,” he murmured.

“Nothing,” I said a bit defensively.

“This should be your next step,” he handed me a mortar full of some kind of spiralling grey powder, "but it should be much less dense by now. And it should have a way more bluish colour. And none of this flowery smell.”

“Is there anything right?”

“Well, it hasn’t exploded yet, so I think-”

It did explode then. There wasn't any warning sign, the potion bubbling slowly in the cauldron in one moment and coating everything nearby - including the table, our books and equipment, and us - in a thick layer of hot and stingy fluid in the next one. There was a bit of panic, because albeit it should have been a totally harmless healing potion, my creation seemed to start fuming, sizzling and slowly eating its way through everything it touched. We were both casting cleaning spells a bit frantically, which somehow ended up so powerful that we managed to get rid of not only my potion, but every potion in every cauldron in the room. Then there was silence, huge and perplexed silence, our two-hour job only evident in some open books or ingredients left out on the tables. 

 

 

This incident didn't help me get any more popular. Word got around about my incompetence in potion making, and there were quite colourful stories about how I erased everyone’s hard work. I repeated many times that a cleaning spell that simple could never have such a big effect, but, of course, there was no other explanation I could offer.

“What spell did you use?” asked Locke that evening with a bored sigh, while I was in his office, sitting in the uncomfortable chair in front of his writing desk. 

“Just the basic cleaning spell by Polutti,” I replied wearily, having already gone over this multiple times throughout the day.

“That's hardly the ideal choice for cleaning up an exploded potion,” he said.

“Well, my face was covered in something hot and acrid, so I had better things to do than contemplating the best ever choice of cleaning spell-”

“Your potion should not have been acrid in the first place. What did you add? There's nothing in the ingredients that can end up explosive.”

“It wasn't a big explosion,” I shrugged.

“What did you put in it?” He kept staring at me with a mostly blank, only slightly bored face.

“Nothing. Councillor Stone made the first steps with us, brewing a herbal base, then left us to finish the work. He said my potion looked just fine when he left.”

“Right. Good to hear that you can follow a few basic instructions while you are under constant supervision.” I tried to say something, but he raised a hand to silence me. “What did you put in your cauldron after that? List every ingredient you used.”

“I told you already, I didn't put anything in.”

“Councillor Stone said you worked for at least an hour on your own. Are you telling me that you did not put a single thing in your cauldron all that time?”

“Yes.”

Locke took a deep breath before exhaling heavily. "Fine. Starting tomorrow, meet me in the alchemy laboratory at four o'clock sharp. Bring A Thousand and Seventy-One Potions for Everyday Brewing from the library."

“You said I wasn't allowed in the library.”

His gaze hardened. "Perhaps you should learn to seize the opportunities I provide, rather than persisting in your obstinacy. What do you say?"

I’m saying that I have no idea what’s happening here and that’s a bit scary.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Then I looked away. “Yes, master.”

 

One afternoon, four days later, I was reading a book about a legendary magician named Samuel Shanton, who was supposed to be the first one ever to use timeshaping (without dying in the process). His biography was not on my reading list, but it was far more interesting than the books about alchemy or sigils or even martial arts I should have been reading instead. Who learns martial arts from a book? 

Just as I turned a page to a new chapter, there came a sharp knock on my door. Before I could even respond, Finnian barged in, the door creaking softly behind him. He was impeccably dressed, holding a small wooden chest in his hands.

“Councillor Locke wishes to see you,” he said. 

I looked back to my book, then at Finnian again. 

“I don’t wish to see him now.” I’ve spent the whole first part of the afternoon trying to catch up with my readings in alchemy, then suffering his dissatisfied gaze for one and a half hour while trying to brew a soothing Harmony Draught from memory (because using a damn book would be so low), then persuading myself to not talk back when he falsely praised my nonexistent merits after my potion splattered out, burning tiny holes into his shoes. Needless to say, I would rather have attempted to time travel myself and maybe die in the process than to have another conversation with Locke that day.

“He says you have to be in his room in three minutes,” Finnian persisted.

“Tell him I say he can fuck himself.”

Finnian sighed deeply, his carefully composed expression falling apart. “ Please come with me, we are running out of time.”

“ Please tell him I’m not in the mood.”

“Will, please, Councillor Locke is waiting for you.”

With a resigned sigh, I closed my book and stood up, slipping on my green coat.

“What’s in that?” I asked. He looked down at the chest in his hands. It was made from old-looking dark wood, with iron plates on the corners and a big rusty padlock in the middle. 

“You could ask Councillor Locke yourself.”

Councillor Locke can go fuck himself. 

But I pulled on my boots, and reluctantly followed Finnian along the now familiar path, climbing up the spiral staircases to Locke's dark office door. 

I stood there, feeling out of place and deliberately wearing a grumpy expression while Finnian placed the mysterious chest on Locke’s desk. Something was definitely happening - Locke was packing. Books and piles of documents cluttered his desk, reminding me of his announcement, made what felt like a lifetime ago but was only two weeks prior, about his impending important journey.

“Sit down,” he said, and I gave him another angry look before flopping down into the chair opposite his desk. He assessed me with a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. “You can drop the sulking act,” he remarked, taking a seat himself.

“I-” I realised at the last moment that telling him I wasn't sulking would sound pretty sulky, so I decided to keep quiet. 

“William, as you know, I have an important task that requires me to-”

So much for keeping quiet. 

“Well, I don’t actually know, because last time you mentioned your really important travels, you said it’s none of my business to know where you are going.”

He paused, clearly annoyed. “We are verifying and authorising different magical artefacts in the Sanctum,” he continued, gesturing towards the chest, “and when we are handling a particularly important, dangerous, or valuable artefact, it is my-”

“And which one is this? Important, dangerous or valuable?”

“When we are handling a particularly important, dangerous or valuable artefact, it is my task, as the leader of the Magical Artefact Authentication Faculty, to personally oversee the process. I will be away for four days, and I expect nothing less than absolute dedication from you in your studies. You will-”

“All the other Councillors take their apprentices with them on their journeys,” I said, not being able to hide the disappointment from my voice. 

He eyed me in silence for a second with a curious expression on his face. Then he shook his head, adjusted his collar and stood up. 

“Do you want to come with me?”

“No,” I said quickly. He raised an eyebrow. 

“Really consistent, are you? Now, I shall let you know that your incessant interruptions test my patience. A magician must possess the utmost control over their powers, and that begins with mastering oneself. I suggest you choose your words wisely from now on.”

I reverted to my strategy of staying quiet. 

“So, as I was saying, you will study conscientiously while I’m away, without excuse or hesitation. You will continue participating in the morning lessons, whichever Councillor might instruct them. I expect you to finish the books on your reading list by the time I get back. I also asked Councillor Kato to assess your martial arts skills, despite the fact that I am aware that this will bring shame on both of us. She is waiting for you at five o’clock this afternoon.”

I nodded. 

“You are free to use the library or any of the study chambers, but you are not allowed to leave the premises of the Sanctum.”

I nodded again. 

He took a deep breath, and his face seemed to soften lightly.

Locke took a deep breath, his expression softening slightly. “Once I see that you are able to control your power with awareness and discipline, and more importantly, that you are able to show proper control and follow my instructions, you may travel with me. I don't want you to live locked up here forever, but I have important and often dangerous business to attend to during my travels, and I can't take someone with me who is not responsible enough.”

He checked his pocket watch, then closed it with practised ease. “It is time for me to leave,” he announced. “Finnian is preparing my carriage.”

“Finnian is going with you?” 

Keep your mouth shut. 

“Yes. He is a big help for me.”

“I could help too.”

Keep your mouth shut, you idiot.

“Well, you can help me with my baggage,” he said, stepping around the table and carefully lifting up the chest.

“You could use a basic spell for your baggage,” I muttered. “By the way, why are you even travelling with a carriage?”

“Some magical objects need careful handling,” he said, then pointed to his travel bags. “But not those. I can entrust them to you. Come on.”

Keep your mouth shut , I told myself again, but this time just to refrain from saying some insults that came to my mind. With a few gestures, I raised the suitcases to the air, guiding them out of the door after Locke. 

Despite living there for a fortnight, I still barely knew the Sanctum. It was huge, with so many storeys and staircases and corridors and chambers and halls, that it would probably take days to just walk through it all. I knew well the living quarters and some of the study area, with the library, and a few other places, like the Refectory and the training grounds outside, but everywhere I went, there were also turns and side corridors and random doors and gateways I knew nothing about. 

Now I was following Locke a bit sullenly, taking stairs and twisting through the passageways. The building was totally empty again, having that strange atmosphere like no one else was living or working there. 

Finally, we ended up on that narrow and dimly lit corridor with the many portraits of the long dead, grumpy magicians. I stopped dead in front of the painting with that old magician with the purple cape. I remembered him from my first day, and I remembered that I remembered him later too. But I almost forgot that I dreamed about him, too. 

“Who is he?” I asked. 

Locke stopped, a few steps ahead of me, and turned back. I felt some strange satisfaction when seeing his not angry or impatient, but contemplative face. 

“That’s Lysander Langston. Why do you ask?”

“Isn’t this portrait a bit… strange?”

He tilted his head to the right, looking at the man with the purple cape and the unsettling gaze. 

“What do you mean?”

“I dreamed about him,” I said. It was getting a bit hard to look away. 

“You dreamed about him?” Locke’s voice seemed a bit too loud, too harsh in the emptiness of the Sanctum. 

“Yeah. He was… in my dream, he was quite… kind.”

“Kind.” 

Disbelieving. 

“Yes.” I was stepping closer, raising my hand to touch the painting, when Locke was suddenly beside me, yanking me away. I tripped, and his suitcases fell to the floor with an echoing thud. 

“Come on,” he said, striding away briskly. I blinked, then blinked again, then spelled the suitcases in the air again, following him. 

We traversed the garden that separated the Sanctum from the Citadel, encountering a few individuals along the way. Locke exchanged greetings with several magicians as we made our way through the newer, grander corridors. Eventually, we emerged from the Citadel through a massive wooden door, stepping out into a bustling and lively square where Finnian and a carriage awaited us.

I lived in the emptiness and relative silence of the Sanctum only for two weeks, but even after that, the bustling and crowded square seemed quite overwhelming. Locke stood beside me, holding the chest, while Finnian loaded the carriage with his suitcases. I noticed a few passersby looking at us, and a child pointing at Locke, who looked definitely like a magician in the Council’s uniform. I wondered if I looked like a magician in my green apprentice coat, or just like some unpretentious porter boy. I wondered which would be better in the long term-

I have no idea where they came from. I sensed Locke getting tense, and I turned to look at him, then I looked suddenly back to the other end of the square, where someone screamed, and then Locke was pressing the chest into my hands with a grim expression. 

“Go back inside,” he said, then he was off, to the commotion, where more and more people were shouting and screaming, and… something dark was emerging from the shadows. 

What the hell . 

It was a sunny afternoon, and there were tall buildings and old trees all around the square, casting broad shadows over the cobblestone pavement, over the vendor’s carts, over dozens of people, who slowly realised that something strange was happening. There was more and more shouting, some people fleeing to nearby streets, others standing still and staring. I heard some whispers, but when I looked around there was no one near me. And it was so strange in this strong sunlight, but there were creatures raising up from the shadows, having somehow humanlike form, but twisted and deformed and not right, and the sky was still blue but somehow everything seemed darker now, and these- these things- these creatures- they were moving really slowly, but they managed to spread the panic so fast, and someone was screaming in my ear, so loud and painful and it was so hot and scorching-

Locke was in front of me, his magic around, and then the square was silent again, the people slowly getting up, whispering and looking around, frightened, but the sun was shining brightly and the shadows were just the normal shadows on the cobblestone. 

Locke was prompt and uncompromising. There were a few other magicians around the square, and he organised them to clean up and to help everyone who might be injured (though I didn’t know how exactly did these shadows injure anyone), ordered Finnian to unload the carriage, tore the chest from my hands and growled at me to get in my room. He himself went back to the building with long steps and a fluttering coat. I ran after him. 

“What were these things?”

“Go to your room.”

We turned into a wide, bright corridor. The few people inside the Citadel didn’t seem to know that anything strange or unusual might have happened, walking or chatting quietly. Locke went on with long steps,  and I almost had to run to keep up with him.

“What are we going to do now?” I persisted. “Are you staying here? What were those things?”

“ We are not doing anything. You are going back to your room. Continue your studies, read some books or just sleep, I don’t care.”

“But what were those… those shadows, or I don’t know-”

Locke stopped abruptly, whirling to face me with a speed that caught me off guard. I stumbled backward. 

“If I remember correctly, I told you to get back inside, didn’t I?”

My back met the cold stone wall. He stepped closer, hHis dark, penetrating gaze boring into me, sending a shiver down my spine. 

“Answer me.” 

“Yes.”

He thrust the chest into my hands before reaching out to grasp my chin, forcing me to meet his intense stare. I averted my eyes, my breaths coming in rapid bursts.

“Then tell me, why didn’t you do as I said? Was I not speaking clear enough? Did my words fail to register in that thick skull of yours, or do you simply enjoy defying me at every turn?”

His eyes bore into mine, demanding a response, but I remained stubbornly silent. 

“You thought that you could simply disregard my orders and wander off into danger?”

“I thought it was like a… suggestion,” I said in an angry voice, but to be safe, I continued to avoid his eyes. “And I wandered absolutely nowhere. I was standing completely in one place.”

“A suggestion.” His voice seemed to be a bit too flat for my liking.

“Yes.”

His fingers tightened on my chin with such force that I let out an involuntary groan. His eyes were flashed with a dangerous glint. My back was pressed against the cold and hard wall, and I was grateful for the small and still mysterious wooden chest being between us, in my slightly trembling hands. 

Locke's expression hardened, his jaw clenching with barely contained rage. “You are reckless and disobedient,” he spat, his words laced with venom. "You have no respect for authority, and you refuse to listen to reason. And until you learn to control yourself, you will remain a liability.”

I twisted myself out of his grip, but he grabbed my elbows and held me in place.

“I'm doing my best right now to control myself from telling you exactly what I think of your so-called mentoring,” I mumbled.

“You're insufferable,” he hissed, his voice low and dangerous. “Let me make something abundantly clear to you, William,” Locke continued, his words dripping with contempt. “You are nothing without discipline. You are nothing without respect. And until you learn to humble yourself and obey orders without question, you will remain a worthless burden.”

There was a long silence. 

“What do you say?” he hissed. 

“Yeah,” I said.

His grip tightened on my elbows.

“If you insist on being a-”

“Let me go,” I interrupted.

His eye flashed, but then he must have seen my face, too, because his grip loosened a bit.

“Let me go,” I repeated. “Or I drop this precious little chest of yours.”

Locke's expression darkened, his anger reaching a boiling point. "You are playing with fire," he warned, his voice a low growl. "And if you're not careful, you'll get burned."

I moved suddenly to the left, tearing myself out of his grasp. He reached after me, his fingers grabbing a few strands of my hair and yanking painfully. I managed to get away, and only turned back when I was a few safe steps away.

I smirked, a defiant glint in my eyes. "Bring it on," I challenged, my bravado masking the fear that churned in my gut. Then I turned around, and simply ran. 

 

Notes:

Any feedback would be greatly appreciated ^^

Chapter 5: Dusk

I was sitting under a tree on the bank of a stream, in some elegant park in one of the outer districts of the city. It was probably not really elegant to sit on the neatly mowed lawn, but no one bothered me. 

I had simply walked out of the Citadel, then kept walking through unknown parts of the city, farther and farther away from the Council, until the tall towers of the Citadel and the Sanctum could not be seen behind me. No one followed me. 

What the hell should I do now?

It was getting darker and colder.

I imagined going back to the monastery, and wondered what the monks might think of me now. One of them, probably Fhearnan, must have gone into town since then and learned from the librarian that I had been there. They probably think I walked away with the books and the money - as a matter of fact, I don't even know what happened to these things, they were taken when Locke essentially tossed me into prison. What would the monks say if I suddenly went back? I mean not so suddenly, but after like a week of journey? 

The monastery was actually quite a peaceful place. The monks were quiet and austere, but if I followed a few rules and did my work, they let me keep to myself. The high priest probably even liked me. Fhearnan too. They let me read books. I could practise my magic in secret. I had a nice bed and warm food to eat. Obviously there would be unpleasant questions, and probably some punishment, and I would have to pay for the books. But everything could remain as before. I could live my whole life there.

I knocked my head down on my drawn-up knees. Who am I fooling? I would never return to the monastery. 

But then what the hell should I do now?

I thought about living on the streets, but then I remembered the Council, and the fact that the whole Council had seen this face. My fingers curled idly around a lock of hair, weaving the magic into it almost imperceptibly. There was just enough light left to see the dark brown colour out of the corner of my eye. I thought about living in incognito, and then I laughed to myself, a dry, bitter laugh, because what other incognito, and how many layers of incognito could a simple man have, and then I thought about going home -

I wrapped my arms around my legs, and rested my forehead on my knees, letting my tears run down on my hidden face. It was getting really cold. 

“They are called the Dusk,” said a cautious voice next to me. I started, and turned my head to the other side, quickly wiping away my tears, while Locke unceremoniously sat down next to me on the grass. “You heard about them, right?”

“The-” It was hard to compose myself, and I had to clear my throat. “The Dusk? You mean… that Dusk?” 

“ That .” His voice sounded weary, and he eyed me with a slightly sad expression. 

“But that- I mean, I heard- I learnt-”

“You learned that over a hundred years ago, during the Kingdom's darkest hours, when war ravaged the land, cities crumbled and darkness threatened to consume everything, the Council created the Dusk, restoring light and vanquishing dark mages for eternity?

“Well… something like that, yes.”

“It is mostly true. It was truly one of the darkest wars, and there was very little hope to survive. But the Dusk is not something that brings light or hope.”

“What… what are they, exactly?”

“They were created with ancient spells. Primordial forces were involved. Corrupted. The Dusk was born from the darkest depths of desperation. They were efficient in defeating our enemies, so, from one point of view, they really managed to bring hope, light and prosperity to the kingdom. There was finally peace, the kingdom was growing and gaining wealth. The price of creating the Dusk was quickly… well, if not forgotten, but definitely and permanently put aside.”

“And the creatures?”

“Even back then, the Council could not fully control them. There were… accidents. But in the few years after the war, it seemed that we managed to get rid of all of them. And there are wards everywhere around the Kingdom.”

“So how could they get in that square today?”

“It's mysterious and worrying that they just showed up like this, so close to the Citadel.”

I glanced at him from the corner of my eyes, and I understood that I’m not getting any more information about this incident now.

“You talk about it like you were there,” I said. “I mean, back then.”

He looked straight ahead, where the bed of the stream could hardly be seen in the dark. 

“Who said I wasn’t?”

“You can’t be that old! Or-” I fell silent. Well, he actually could. But is he?

The corner of his mouth twitched a bit. 

“We are not here to talk about me,” he closed the topic. 

“Sorry,” I murmured. “So… what do they do? The Dusk?”

“They can travel through the shadows. Their power allows them to manipulate the fears and nightmares of their victims, trapping them in a realm of terror and confusion.”

“That…” I had to clear my throat. “That doesn’t sound really good.”

“That’s definitely not good.” 

We sat there for a moment in silence. I was listening to the babbling of the stream, remembering a bit sadly the stream in the monastery’s valley. 

“What happens now?” I asked. 

“You know you have to come back with me, right?” I couldn’t read any emotions from his voice.

“I guessed,” I shrugged, rather than talking about my plans of living on the streets and hiding from my Council for the entire rest of my life.

“Come on. It’s getting really late.”

He stood up, and a moment later I was following suit, standing a little unsteadily on my numb legs. 

“I don’t like it when you treat me like I’m a child,” I said suddenly.

“I definitely do not treat you like a child,” he responded, and there was so much decisiveness and finality in his voice that I didn’t dare to argue, even though he sent me to my room so many times before, like a child- but I kept quiet, and we walked back to the Sanctum, only speaking about the most ordinary things like the buildings and the streets we passed on our way. 

 

The Council held constant urgent meetings. By the time we had breakfast the next morning, almost everyone knew what had happened at the square, and those who might not have heard of it were quickly initiated into the details during the morning meal. Suddenly I became, if still far from popular, at least an interesting person because everyone knew that I had been there at the square. It was a bit unnerving that they seemed to even know every detail about our argument with Locke, and the fact that I ran away and that he, after the first urgent meeting with the Council, came after me. Gavin Prescott had a quite unsettling smirk on his face when he gossiped about this over a bowl of porridge, and he kept throwing telling glances at his friends, which grew increasingly difficult to ignore.

Despite the chatter surrounding the incident, there was an unspoken tension lingering in the air. We studied alone or in small groups, the Councillors being away at the meetings, which now lasted from early morning to late nights. I didn’t even meet Locke for three days. 

On the fourth morning I woke up from a nightmare. I heard someone whisper, and I scrambled to get out of the bed, the sheet tangled around my feet, but as I managed to get my legs on the ground and conjure a lighting sphere, I realised that I was totally alone and the whispers likely belonged to the dream. 

It wasn’t the first time I’d had the same nightmare in the Sanctum, featuring that old man with the purple cloak. Nothing really happened in these dreams, I mostly just stood in front of his portrait, yet my heart always raced and my stomach was in a small knot when I woke up. 

The sun was not up yet, so I went back to bed to read a bit before breakfast. I had to read some really dry and boring books on the history of resource allocation, and I probably dozed off a bit with the book in my hand, because next I woke it was still dark outside, but Locke personally was standing in my room, looking around with clear distaste on his face. I hugged the book to my chest as I sat up.

“Every resident of the Sanctum is expected to maintain a neat and clean living area,” he said. 

“What?” I croaked. This is why you came here?

“Every resident of the Sanctum is expected to maintain a neat and clean living area,” he repeated. “Your room is an embarrassment.”

“I was sleeping,” I said defensively. 

“And in your dream you scattered your belongings around on the floor?” Locke arched an eyebrow, and I could feel my cheeks flushing. “This chaos is unacceptable.”

It wasn’t that bad. I had never been particularly  tidy, and it was true there were a few books left around in places they did not belong to, along with a few clothes and spell equipment, but it was really far from chaos . 

“This is why you came here?” I muttered. 

“No, I’m here to inform you that I expect you at the training grounds in five minutes. But the state of this chamber is a reflection of your discipline and commitment as an apprentice, and I won't tolerate my apprentice to disregard their responsibilities. Tidy up, please.”

“Training?” I glanced out the window. Dawn was still a ways off, the silhouettes of surrounding rooftops barely visible against the dark sky. “ Now? ”

“The Council has pressing matters,” he said grimly. “There is still no explanation for what happened on the square, and my duties as a Councillor are more demanding than ever. Nevertheless, I can't let you go without a proper education, your lagging behind is already embarrassing. So until circumstances change, I'll be waiting for you at the training grounds every morning at five o'clock sharp, and we'll start the day with some swordsmanship practise you quite desperately need. After-”

“Every morning?” I interjected, horrified. 

“Every morning,” he affirmed with a flash in his eyes. “And if you are not completely incapable, then we can finish the training by six, and still have some time for other subjects before breakfast.”

There was a moment of silence when I was uncomfortably aware that I was still sitting in the bed, in my night clothes, the messy locks of my hair in my face, crutching a book in my hands. He was dressed flawlessly in training clothes, wearing black trousers and a white shirt under his Councillor’s coat, and his boots were so shiny I could see the lighting sphere reflected on the leather.

It seems we've had one normal conversation in total, but that still left him a conceited, insufferable man. 

“Sounds fun,” I mumbled. 

“I know,” he grinned, he fucking grinned , then turned around with a “You have three minutes to dress and to tidy up,” then the door closed behind him. 

 

He was in the midst of some drill and I couldn’t refrain from stopping at the edge of the field and admiring his movements. He was so fluid and precise, exuding confidence with every movement, with so much power and control-

“You can come closer,” he called out and I winced, stepping onto the cobbled stone of the training ground. It was one of the smaller outside training areas in the Sanctum, and I suspected Locke preferred to use it because this way less people got the chance to witness my clumsiness. There were high walls around us with ancient engravings in the bricks, and alcoves on one side with an arrangement of training equipment. The sun was not up yet, and there were lanterns all around on the walls, casting a warm, but obscure blaze on everything. I picked up my usual wooden practice sword on my way.

I stood a fair distance away from the path of Locke's sword and waited patiently for him to finish the form. His demeanour remained calm, his eyes sharp and attentive, not once diverting his focus to me until he lowered his sword.

 

 

“You are late,” he remarked. 

“Sorry,” I said, not feeling sorry at all.

“You are…” he quickly checked his pocket watch, “twenty-five minutes late.”

“Sorry,” I repeated, aware that my voice also didn’t sound sorry at all. 

His jaw clenched, a silent warning flashing in his eyes. “Twenty-five laps around the training ground, please.”

I hesitated for a moment. 

“But that would leave us with even less time for actual training, and you wouldn’t want that, would you?”

“I would want to have an apprentice who appreciates the opportunity he has been given and works diligently to achieve exceptional results with his talent. Twenty-five laps, William. Now.”

“Talent?” I asked with a renewed interest. 

“You could start running twenty-five laps now, or you could start running fifty laps after some further defiance.”

I glared at him, not being able to hide my feelings now. He glared back with a triumphant glint in his eyes as I sighed and turned around, tossing my sword down on a bench and beginning to run.

In the monastery, I had a few tasks around the building, but none of them really required a lot of physical strength and none involved running. I liked to spend my time outside, but I liked even more to be among books or practise spells. The sword training sessions with Locke were long and exhausting, but he never made me run laps before. 

It was merely discomfortable, first. My breathing a bit heavier, the uneven stone annoying under my boots. One step after the other. I concentrated on the brick walls surrounding me, aware of Locke’s watchful gaze. I was determined not to show any weakness, but I realised around the fourth lap that any pretence of unyielding determination was futile.

In the end, it was burning fatigue. My legs felt heavy and a thin sheen of sweat covered my skin. When I finally halted, I had to heavily on my knees, gasping for air. 

Damn it, the training ground wasn’t even that big. 

“We shall work on improving your endurance, shouldn't we?” asked Locke, leaning casually to one of the alcove columns, crossing one gleaming boot comfortably over the other.

“We-” I couldn’t really talk yet. “Yeah,” I admitted. 

“But it’s disheartening how your arithmetic skills seem to match your stamina,” he went on, pushing himself off the column and stepping closer to me. I straightened up, my hands pressed against my aching side. 

“What?” I managed between two heavy breaths, confused. 

“I was convinced you could count to twenty-five.”

“I can,” I said, unsure of what he was talking about but with a very unpleasant, ominous feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“That was twenty-four,” he stated. “Perhaps I should enrol you in a basic arithmetic class?”

“I ran twenty-five laps!” I exclaimed, indignation fueling my words.

“No, you didn’t. Finish your task, please,” and he motioned for me to resume running. I I planted my feet in the ground where I stood, my chest still rising too fast, my throat aching.

“No,” I shook my head. 

He just raised an eyebrow. His face was otherwise unreadable. 

Then he tossed the practice sword into my hands, which I miraculously managed to catch, and then he advanced with a precise offension. I didn’t even try to parry, just to quickly get out of the way, but before I could even comprehend what was happening there was a painful blow on my shoulder blades and I was face down on the ground, the tip of his sword digging painfully in the middle of my back. 

“Stand,” he said casually.

I groaned and pushed myself up to my elbows with gritted teeth. The sun was up now, although not high enough for the sunbeams to enter the courtyard.

I pulled my feet under myself, but I was just in the motion of straightening up when his sword landed on my calves with a big, painful thud and swept me off my feet. I landed on my back, the air leaving my lungs and my head knocking on the stone painfully. 

“Stand,” he repeated in a cold, flat tone. 

Clutching my teeth, I rolled onto my side and struggled to sit up. My head spun dizzily as Locke loomed over me, backlit by the rising sun. I reached for my sword before attempting to rise, keeping my gaze fixed on him.

This time I managed to find my footing, with my sword raised in a defensive position. I even managed to block his first blow, or at least meet his first blow - then everything went blurry, his sword collided with my stomach, I tripped but managed to stay upright, something hit my right thigh with a tremendous force, then I probably hit my own left hand with my sword, and then I was on the ground again, this time face down, and there was a sharp pain in my knees and a huge tear in the sleeve of my shirt and bright red blood under my chin. 

“Well, well,” Locke remarked. 

My mind was kind of slow. For some reason I was focused on the light glistening on the shiny cobblestone. I heard myself moan as I raised myself on my elbows, wiping the blood from my chin on my torn sleeve. 

Locke didn’t order me to stand this time. In fact he stepped a bit back, waiting patiently as I struggled to sit up. I had to squeeze my eyes and wait until the vertigo subsided. The cobblestone was still cold and uncomfortable under me, but it was the least of my concerns because my whole body seemed to be in pain. There were definable points and areas, where I felt sharp, stabbing pain, and I knew his sword hit me there and there would likely be nasty bruises on my skin. And there were areas where I hit myself when falling down, my back and my head and my knees and my palms, scraped and oozing a bit of blood, along with my chin, which I pressed to my sleeve because the blood was now running down even to the collar of my shirt. I stayed there, sitting, one hand on my chin, the other supporting me behind my back, legs pulled up a bit. 

“Tell me what have you learned this morning,” he said eventually.

I looked up. He seemed serious, watching me with crossed arms and a gloomy expression on his face.

I opened my mouth, but then closed it again. 

I learned that being your apprentice is synonymous with enduring endless torment.

I knew that there must be some life stirring in the building now, at least as much life as in the Sanctum usually was, a few people gathering in the Refectory or doing some early morning studying in the library. But the training ground was still empty and silent, as if there were no one but us in the whole Sanctum. 

“I learned that… that you have an unhealthy fixation on punctuality, haven’t you?” I wiped at my chin again, the head of my hand covered in blood now. 

He sighed, twirling the sword in his hand. I followed the movement with my eyes. 

“Stand up.”

I groaned. His voice was low and smooth, but there was an unmistakably order in it. I supported my weight on my hands, and slowly managed to work myself into a squat, then, only slightly dizzy, I straightened up. 

“Nice,” he said, looking me over. “Now I want you to put your hands behind your back.” I glared at him, but obeyed. “Good. This is how an apprentice stands before his master, isn’t it?”

I remained silent. He stepped closer, standing directly in front of me. I refused to meet his gaze, and he started circling around me in slow steps, staying close all the time which was both perplexing and frightening at the same time.

“Now,” he went on in an ominously smooth voice, “I want you to know the consequences of your disobedience. You are young. You have talent. You have secrets, a bad attitude, and even a criminal record, but-”

“It was a damned book ,” I hissed. 

“Excuse me?” He finished a circle to halt in front of me.

“You call it a criminal record, but it was just a book! I’m not a criminal.”

“You have quite a peculiar resistance to being called a criminal, when we both know very well that wasn't the first time you've stolen books, and-”

“You know very well nothing about-”

His hand shot up, gripping my jaw and forcing my head up. His fingers dug into the still-bleeding cut on my chin, and I scrunched up my face and blinked rapidly, willing the tears away. 

“You also seem to have an irresistible urge to constantly interrupt me, don’t you?”

“No,” I grunted. 

“If you cut into my words just one more time, you won’t leave this training ground until you have run a hundred more laps. Do you understand?”

I tried to nod, but his firm grip prevented any movement.

“You are enjoying this,” I groaned accusingly.

“But can you blame me?” and he actually chuckled , “Watching you squirm under my command is quite... satisfying.”

I lifted a leg and tried to kick him in the shin, but he just smiled and held my chin even more tightly, lifting it up until I had to stand on my tiptoes. 

“I have to admit, you are quite brave, constantly disobeying your master. Being an apprentice is not easy, I know, and you are one of the especially young apprentices here. The Council has old and strict rules. But courage and talent are not enough, William. You need discipline, focus, determination.”

"If I had a coin for every time you said 'discipline,' I'd be richer than the entire Council.”

He snorted but released his hold on me. I lost my balance, staggering backward.

“Tomorrow morning, at five o’clock sharp,” he stated. “You know what happens when you are late.”

I glared at him, and for a moment he just glared back. Then he stepped closer, lifted a hand, and I flinched but he touched my chin with gentle fingers. My skin tingled, and I had to inhale sharply to steady myself. His fingers brushed my chin with a flow of magic. He lowered his hand, and when I raised mine to my chin, my skin was still bloody but now otherwise intact. 

Then he turned and left. 

Chapter 6: Initiation Ceremony

Summary:

The plot is moving way slower than I expected.

Notes:

Hej! Thank you so much for reading <3
Feedbacks make me sooo happy.
This is my first story in a long time (or like ever) when I managed to let go of the expectations that what I write should be... well, good - so now I knew this has so many mistakes and problems and so on, but I could just stick that 'id fic' to the tags and write happily ^^
Also, English is not my first language, so there could be huge errors. Sorry.

After this, my days became even busier than before. In the beginning the atmosphere of the Sanctum was still strained, as if everyone was waiting for something significant to happen, but as more and more days passed it became quite clear that whatever happened on the square, we were in no imminent danger. The Council allegedly did all kinds of precautionary measures, and there were still more Council meetings than usual, but eventually the routine of everyday life returned. 

Sadly, the everyday life in the Sanctum was not a really good thing. 

Every morning I had training with Locke. It was bad enough to get up so early and drag myself out to the training area, half-asleep, but now we were not only practising swordsmanship. He made me do all kinds of strengthening exercises, I had to run a lot,  and his newest hobby was to force my body into strange positions and keep them for a long time. These were supposed to help me strengthen and stretch my muscles, but they were always uncomfortable and often downright painful. Once, when I complained about a position making me use muscles I didn’t even know existed, he gave me one week to learn the names of every muscle in the human body. 

The worst were the days when we trained until breakfast. Sometimes we finished training earlier, and those days were still bad because then we had time to learn something different, and Locke always made me practise the things that were the most boring or complicated or simply just showed how far behind I was.

Slowly everything went back to their normal routine: early morning suffering with Locke, breakfast, some lectures with a Councillor, lunch, studying alone, studying with Locke, dinner and some more late-night studying. Sleep with strange dreams. Wake up early. Repeat. 

“I mean, it’s not a bad thing to learn all these things,” I said to Sol one early afternoon, sitting at a small study corner in the library, an open book in front of me with some drawings of the human body’s interior, “I don’t want to sound ungrateful or something like that. But Locke is crazy . I just can’t remember this many things at the same time, there is literally not enough room in my brain for them…”

“I know,” Sol said slowly, not looking up from his notes, “last semester he held lessons about artefact legislation, and we had to learn every law regarding artefacts. And I don’t only mean the laws currently in force, but the complete history of the regulation of artefacts.” He looked up in contemplation. “I had to take that exam three times, and some others will have to take it again in the winter. He wouldn’t let us pass if we got a word wrong in the statutory texts to be quoted.”

“He holds lectures?”

“Yes, in the summer and winter semesters.”

“Damn,” I murmured, letting my head fall forward and my forehead to thump dully on the table. “Like spending this much time with him wouldn’t be enough.”

Sol made a sympathetic face, then changed the subject:

“And what about your initiation?”

“My what?” I turned a page absently. 

“Your Initiation Ceremony. It should be about now, shouldn't it?”

“My what ?” I turned to him with a frown. “There is an Initiation Ceremony?”

“Yes, on the thirty-third day of your apprenticeship.” Sol looked a bit uncertain now. “Didn’t Locke tell you about it?”

“No, he didn’t,” I murmured. 

 

It was probably the first time I went to Locke’s office on my own will. I stomped up the spiral staircase to knock on his door, perhaps a little too heavily. 

“Come in,” he called. 

If he was surprised by my sudden visit he didn’t show. He was sitting behind his desk, writing something in the huge book open in front of him. There was some kind of unfamiliar wooden object next to him. He was only in a shirt, his forearm bare under his rolled-up sleeves, his skin- I tore my eyes away, annoyed with myself. 

“There’s an initiation?” I asked.

“Good afternoon to you too, William,” he nodded, raising an eyebrow.

“I heard there is some kind of initiation?” I went on. 

“Yes, there is.”

“When?”

He slowly pushed the book a bit further away, and folded his hand on the table. 

“Tomorrow,” he said. 

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“But- How- And why didn’t- And what-”

He raised a hand to silence me, and damn it , I went silent. 

“I gave you a copy of the Rulebook, didn’t I?”

“You did, but-”

“Did you read it, as I told you?”

“Well, I tried, but you know it’s almost a thousand pages and you made me read ten other books every week, and-”

“So you did not read the Rulebook.” His gaze on me was getting more and more uncomfortable.

“Why are we talking about the Rulebook?” I asked with some desperation. “Why couldn’t you just answer my question?”

“Because every information you need to know about apprenticeship is in the Rulebook. If you had read it, as I asked you, you wouldn’t have to bother me with these questions.”

I couldn't stop rolling my eyes and groaning in frustration.

“So you just aren't gonna answer me?” 

“Sit down,” he pointed to the chair in front of his desk. He still looked totally calm, only his eyes were getting a bit sharper. I gave him an angry look, but took the few steps to the chair and slumped down, crossing my arms in front of my chest.

Locke leaned back a bit, his expression unreadable as he regarded me. "The Initiation Ceremony marks a significant milestone in your apprenticeship," he began, his voice measured. “It is a tradition that dates back centuries, a rite of passage that signifies your commitment to the pursuit of magical knowledge and the responsibilities that come with it.”

He looked at me expectantly. 

“Alright,” I nodded. 

“It serves as a formal acknowledgment of your progress and dedication thus far,” he went on. “It is a chance for you to reaffirm your commitment to the path you have chosen and to embrace the challenges that lie ahead.”

“Nice”, I said.

“The thirty-three days,” he continued, “are not merely a matter of tradition. They represent a period of growth, of learning, and of preparation. During this time, you have been given the opportunity to immerse yourself in the teachings of the Sanctum, to absorb the knowledge that will shape your path as a practitioner of magic.” He paused briefly, looking over me from head to toe. “But more than that, the thirty-three days serve as a trial of sorts—a test of your commitment, your dedication, and your character. It is a chance for you to demonstrate your readiness to embrace the responsibilities of an apprentice, to prove that you possess the discipline and the resolve to walk this path with integrity and purpose.”

I stayed silent. That began to sound suspiciously unpleasant. 

“And it is during this ceremony,” he concluded, his voice carrying a note of finality, “that I will have the opportunity to assess whether you are truly prepared to continue on this journey. If, in my judgement, you are found lacking - then I reserve the right to end your apprenticeship.”

I stared at him for a moment, then stood up suddenly, restless, my heart thumping in my chest.

“Then why did I have to suffer for thirty-two days?” I went to the window, raking my hands through my hair, before returning to the other side of the room. “Why couldn’t you tell me, like on the second or maybe on the third day that you find me lacking ?”

His only response was a stringent “Sit down, please.”

“Why would I have to sit down if you are kicking me out anyway?” I exclaimed.

There was just a really small shift in his posture. “ Now ,” he said, and voice grew sharper, cutting through the air with an edge of authority tinged with impatience. I stopped my pacing, a shiver running down my spine. “You're testing my patience, and I assure you, it won't end well for you if you continue.”

I sat down. 

“Nice,” he nodded. “Now, remember that you'll need to present yourself with confidence and respect, and-

“Present?” I cut in. “Who will be there?”

“The Ceremony is traditionally in the Council Chamber, where-”

“In front of the Council?” 

“Yes, but I would like to ask you to-”

“The whole fucking Council? What the-”

A stroke of magic, and then I couldn't continue. I tried to speak, opening my mouth and my throat working around the sounds, but no voice came. My hand clenched into a fist, grabbing the front of my shirt over my stomach. Sweat broke out on my skin, and for a moment I felt like I couldn't breathe. When I looked up, I saw Locke's impassive face, his features set in a mask of stern resolve. There was a calmness about him, as if he were entirely unfazed by the situation; only a hint of satisfaction in his eyes revealed his true feelings. 

I took a deep breath. I could feel the magic on my vocal cords, a constant, invasive, stinging sensation. I took another deep breath, and then another, until the nausea subsided. I didn’t try to speak again, but also refused to look at him. 

“This is not the first time I tried to ask you not to cut into my words,” he said, his voice tight and angry. “You should have learnt by now that I really don’t like to be interrupted.”

He paused, but I couldn't answer. I kept my head turned slightly to the side, staring at a cabinet in the corner of the room. 

“I will not tolerate your insolence any longer,” he added. 

You don't have to - kicking me out tomorrow, remember?

“I understand your frustration, but your outbursts were disrespectful and disruptive. As your master, it is my duty to ensure that you conduct yourself appropriately. Consider this a lesson in self-control and restraint.”

My right hand was clutching the fabric of my shirt so hard that by now I could barely feel my fingers. I stayed as still as I could, only my chest heaved. 

 “Now that you're finally listening, let me explain the importance of the Initiation Ceremony.”

I glanced at him, for a single moment, just to glare at him angrily. He glared back smugly. 

“The vow you are about to take," he said, “is not to be taken lightly. It is a sacred oath, binding you to the path of magic, to the sanctum, and to me as your master.”

I raised an eyebrow, sceptically. 

“You will oath to uphold the Sanctum’s values, protect its secrets, and serve with honour and integrity.”

Secrets?

“And remember,” I saw from the corner of my eyes that he raised a hand to point at me, “this vow is not just a formality. It is a magical contract, imbued with the power of centuries of tradition and knowledge. It will strengthen your connection to the magical energies that flow through the sanctum, enhancing your abilities.”

The cabinet in the corner wasn’t really interesting, so my gaze drifted away, to that strange wooden object on his desk. It was like a hollow orb with carved grooves, polished smooth and shiny.

“You should know,” he continued, now a bit slower, his voice slightly contemplative, “that allowing you to take the vow could have… consequences.”

My eyes darted to him, then back to the cabinet. So kind of you to tell me this now, when I have so much time left to prepare. The cabinet seemed like a safe choice to fix my gaze on. I took small, controlled breaths.

“I wouldn’t deny that you have great magical power,” he said, “but you should know that having great power is nothing. A magician who has the smallest magical aptitude but a great control over that magic is a far more valuable and respectable person than one who happened to have the luck of having great power but was not able to learn to control it. The oath has the power to bring forth latent strengths and talents. But it won’t help you to achieve the necessary discipline and self-mastery to control that power.”

He sighed, and I turned to him just to see him unfolding his interlocked fingers, and smoothing the front of his shirt with careful movements. There was a deep, strong tightness in my chest, and now I found it harder to glare at him - I still tried, but I constantly had to avert my eyes. I felt shameful and unworthy and chastised. 

His face, on the other hand, seemed completely satisfied. 

“It was nice to have a conversation with you,” he said, and he didn’t even have to say a word or make a gesture to lift the charm. 

At once, the pressure disappeared from my throat, and I took a deep breath. The exhalation turned out to be much more jagged than I intended, and while I could feel my muscles finally relax a bit, my stomach flipped again and for a moment I was really afraid that I’m going to vomit, right then and there. 

“Do you understand me?” he asked.

I nodded, slowly and deliberately unclenching my right hand from my shirt. 

“Good. Do you still have any questions?”

Why didn’t you tell me about this sooner?

What do you mean by latent strengths?

And what kind of consequences?

Do you really think I have great power?

Why did you tell me all of this if you are kicking me out tomorrow anyway?

Why do you hate me this much and what kind of secrets are here in the Sanctum and why am I even here and what the fuck is happening with my life?

But I remained silent, stubbornly staring at the cabinet in the corner, sitting as still as I could manage, muscles still tense. 

“I asked you a question.”

Why do you think you can just take away anyone's voice against their will?

That tightness still lingered in my chest, and I felt cold, my hands, clasped tightly in my lap, trembled slightly. 

When Locke spoke again, his voice sounded unexpectedly soft, almost worried: “You can talk now.”

I shook my head, then stood up abruptly. He stood too, but by then I was already halfway to the door. I glanced back and unleashed a huge wave of magic to his direction, not even thinking about any spell or enchantment, and for a moment I felt like a fool, since I was doing the exact behaviour he condemned, exerting my power without any control – but at the same time the tension was finally leaving me, and when I ran down the stairs, not even looking back to see what happened to him, I just felt tired, and finally, nothing else . 

 

It was mid-afternoon, but I went straight to my room and there straight to my bed, only leaning down to pull on my shoelaces, just enough so I could kick my boots off, then I fell on the bed, yanked the blanket over me and let my eyes close. 

It felt so good, just to lie there, my body still buzzing a bit with magic, but calm and still and resting. I felt my breathing slowing down, getting deeper and more steady. 

In my dream there were magicians and shadows and the painting of Lysander Langston, telling me stories about earlier Initiation Ceremonies and people dying or going mad. Then I woke up somewhere in the middle of the night, cold and sweaty, tossed and turned for a while, and when I managed to get back to sleep some time later I had a completely different dream, about Locke, who was doing the training drills, but this time without his shirt, in bright sunshine, his muscles tensing in his arms as he lifted the heavy sword–

I woke up to a sharp knock. It was still dark, but as Locke stepped into my room he lit the lanterns on the walls with a flick of his finger. With a groan, I pushed myself upright, rubbing my eyes and blinking, confused, arranging the blanket over me hurriedly. 

“We don’t have time to train this morning,” he said, and he looked like he didn't even need sleep, like ever, because he was so organised and neat all the time. “Your Initiation Ceremony is at sunrise, and it will look very bad and I will be very unhappy if you will be late.”

“Sunrise?” I repeated, my voice rough with sleep as I ran a hand through my dishevelled hair. 

“Perhaps if you had waited until we finished our conversation yesterday, you would have known the details of today's ceremony,” he said. He sounded bored as he looked around in my room, frowning. “And you should keep some tidiness here. I told you before.”

I drew up my knees, not wanting to get out from under the safe warmth of the blanket. “It really seemed to me yesterday that you could have told me anything you wanted,” I said, looking at the light beige fabric of the bedding. 

“You missed our afternoon lesson,” he went on. 

“Well, maybe I was fucking tired,” I snapped. 

“You should learn-”

“Discipline, I know,” I said, rolling my eyes.

His eyes flashed angrily. “Get dressed, and meet me in my office in ten minutes.”

 

His office was a mess. 

“You should keep some tidiness here, too,” I remarked, but there was clearly no real power behind my words. 

That cabinet I kept staring at the day before was completely destroyed. There were splinters of wood everywhere, shards of glass, and then my stomach twisted with guilt, seeing the  books and scrolls strewn haphazardly, their pages torn and tattered. Even the wall was damaged around the cabinet, the wallpaper torn, the edges frayed, the bare bricks visible. 

Amidst the destruction, the air shimmered with an iridescent mist, casting a surreal glow over the chaos. Vibrant colours danced across the remnants of the cabinet, painting the air with hues of azure, emerald, and amethyst.

Locke's voice cut through the silence, breaking the spell of awe and disbelief that had settled over the room. “This,” he said, his tone clipped and authoritative, “is what happens when you allow your emotions to cloud your judgement.”

“I’m- I’m sorry?” I said, sounding uncertain. I did feel sorry for the cabinet, it was really nice to look upon, and I felt really sorry for the books, but I didn’t feel like apologising to Locke. 

“Keep this in mind during your Ceremony today,” he said. His gaze lingered on the wreckage for a moment longer before turning to me, his expression unreadable. “I hope it reminds you of the responsibility that comes with your power. I wish you good luck, William.”

And then we were marching through the Sanctum, through the corridors and staircases and passageways – my gaze lingered a bit on Lysander Langston portrait, as usual –, then we went through the garden, dewy and bright and full of strange noises in the darkness before dawn, then through the corridors of the Citadel. I was tense, but my tension grew a lot when we arrived at the Council Hall, and it was full of Councillors, and I realised they all got up at this awfully early hour just to witness my Initiation. 

The last time I was in the Council Chamber I was led there from the prisons then threatened with a flogging, but still I was much more nervous now. The Councillors were sitting high up in their half-circle, and now I knew some of them, but it didn’t help to feel more relaxed. There was Councillor Stone, on whose lesson my most memorable activity was blowing up my cauldron. Arfinnr held astral studies lessons, but he always seemed a bit distracted and I didn’t even know whether he recognised me or not. Niobe taught ritual magic, and while she seemed kind of nice and patient she was also quite exacting. 

But next to the few familiar faces there were also almost two dozen Councillors whom I didn’t meet or didn’t remember. Most of them were chatting quietly, but a few were looking at me with curious eyes. 

In the middle sit Eleanor Ashmore, the Head of the Council, and next to her Locke. They were talking about something with serious faces.

So I just waited there, in the middle, having no idea what to do or how to stand or where to put my hands, until everyone seemed to get quieter, and the first rays of sunshine shone into the Chamber through the bottom of a huge window made from coloured glass panes. 

There was one simple bell toll. 

Ashmore rose from her seat, and I looked at Locke, then back at her commanding presence. “Welcome,” she began, her words slightly echoing under the high, vaulted ceiling of the chamber. “Today marks a momentous occasion in our Sanctum: a time-honoured ritual that has been observed since time immemorial. It is a ceremony that symbolises the passing of knowledge, the forging of bonds, and the perpetuation of our sacred craft.” She held a short pause, her gaze heavy on me, but she was smiling. “I welcome everyone to the Initiation Ceremony of our newest apprentice, William Alden. Councillor Locke, please.”

She sat down, gesturing for Locke who stood up and stepped forward. They were up on a dais, so I had to tilt my head back to see his unreadable face.

“Apprenticeship,” he began, his voice loud and sure and hard, “is not merely a passing of knowledge from one generation to the next. It is a sacred pact, a bond forged in the crucible of sacrifice and perseverance, of dedication and discipline .” I winced, but kept looking back at him, my back straight, head raised up, hands behind my back. 

“It is said that magic flows through the veins of our world like a river,” Locke went on, “unseen yet ever-present, its currents shaping the very fabric of existence. And as practitioners of this ancient craft, it is our duty, our solemn obligation, to harness this power for the greater good.”

I shifted from one foot to the other. I would have been graceful if all the Councillors were to look somewhere else, but I could constantly feel their gazes on me. 

“And so,” Locke concluded, nodding at me, his voice ringing with conviction, “let it be known that from this day forth, you shall be recognized as my apprentice: a guardian of our ancient traditions, a custodian of the knowledge that has been passed down through the ages, a carrier of the Torch of Enlightenment. Please prepare to take your vow.”

My stomach was in a tight knot. While I really feared that he would kick me out, now I also felt a new kind of tension about staying here. 

Locke walked down to me, holding a small stone goblet. It was simple and worn, still I instantly felt the ancient magic radiating from it. 

“Do you know what this is?” he asked quietly.

“No?” I answered, uncertain if this was something evident I should be familiar with. 

“It is written in our Rulebook,” he said, smirking, and I felt my eyes widen, wondering if he would really keep me in the dark; but he kept his voice low and continued, “This is our Torch of Enlightenment. You are expected to hold your hand in its flame during the oath.”

I stared at him, then down at the small goblet. Of course I knew the Torch of Enlightenment, it was the ancient symbol of the Council, depicted on everything around here in the Sanctum and the Citadel, embroidered on every Councillors' coats and sealed in every book of the Sanctum’s library. Looking up I realised even the stained glass window, with the first rays of sunlight, was a simplified image of the Torch. But it was always portrayed as a torch, with gold and emerald flames, not like a battered stone cup. 

“This doesn’t look like a torch to me,” I whispered.

He gave me a look , severe and angry and exasperated. 

“Put your hand over it, please,” and he waited until I complied. As my fingers reached the rim of the goblet, dark green flames lit up from nowhere, and I almost pulled my hand away, but it did not burn my skin, only felt a bit warm and prickly.  “The flame will seal your vow. Repeat the words after me.”

“ By the ancient forces that guide our world,” I started, voice slightly trembling, and the flame around my fingers getting warmer and warmer,“I, William… Alden,” the flame went painfully hot, and I grimaced and hissed before I could continue, “in front of the esteemed Council of Magicians and in the presence of my master… I do hereby swear to uphold the sacred tenets of our ancient order.” It was getting a bit harder to breathe, and I felt Locke’s constant heavy gaze upon me, and I knew that it shouldn’t be this hard, so I tried to take deep breaths and smooth my voice. “I pledge to devote myself wholeheartedly to the pursuit of knowledge, wisdom, and mastery of the arcane arts. I shall wield the powers entrusted to me with wisdom and discretion, mindful of the consequences of my actions and the responsibilities that come with them. May my spirit remain steadfast, my mind open, and my soul ever attuned to the ancient truths that guide us.”

First the flames lit up, then disappeared, and then it was over.

I lowered my hand, and put it back behind my back.

“May the light of knowledge guide your path,” said Ashtone, her voice carrying through the Chamber. “May the wisdom of the ancients illuminate your journey. And may the bonds forged this day endure for all eternity.”

The sun was rising higher, illuminating more and more of the windows, painting long streaks of light on the floor. I looked at Locke, and he nodded, his face almost pleased, but also thoughtful and suspicious, and I was then sure that even if the other Councillors didn’t, he saw clearly that something wasn’t completely right during my vow. 

But still, I was officially his apprentice.

Chapter 7: Dangers of Magic

Summary:

Lots of dialogue and some mystery.

Chapter 7

 

Locke held my wrist in his hand, observing the burnmark on my palm. We were up in his office, where he swiftly restored order with a single spell. Only the absence of the cabinet in the corner revealed what had happened before.

“Is there something troubling you?” he asked. 

I looked up, eyebrows knitting together in surprise. 

“What do you mean?”

“It's clear something troubled you during the ceremony. And now,” he traced a finger over the burnmark, and I winced and tried to yank my hand away, but he held it tightly, “it seems whatever it was, it left its mark.”

“I don’t know,” I murmured, standing from one foot to the other.

He searched my face with narrowed eyes, his gaze pensive, troubled. I looked briefly back at him, but it was too perplexing so my eyes drifted away, first to the empty place where the cabinet stood in the corner, then down to his fingers, clasping my wrist firmly. 

“I know it’s not easy to be an apprentice–” he started.

“And you definitely didn’t make it any easier.”

He let go of my wrist, and gestured towards his desk. “Sit.”

I did, first grumpily, then getting a bit tense, remembering the last time I sat in front of him in that chair. My eyes travelled to the corner of the room, where the absence of the cabinet now seemed more conspicuous than the cabinet itself before. Locke sat behind his desk, resting his elbows on the table and interlocking his fingers in front of him.

“What do you think, how dangerous magic is?” he asked. 

I blinked, not expecting this question. 

“Well, it… depends?”

“Depends on what?”

“You know, like– like one wrong move and boom, you have accidentally turned yourself into a toad?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, that would be unfortunate,” he slowly nodded. “But please concentrate. What do you think, how dangerous magic can be?”

“I know what you are aiming for,” I replied, rolling my eyes. “Magic is dangerous, and I should be more careful, and I have to learn discipline and self-mastery to control my power.”

“So sometimes you are actually paying attention to me.”

“I always am,” I feigned some indignation with a nonchalant wave of my hand, then winced when my burnt skin tightened painfully.

“But answer me earnestly, please. What do you think about the dangers of magic?”

“I’m not going to blow up the Sanctum, if that’s what you are afraid of,” I scoffed.

He glared at me for a moment. 

“You are anxious,” he stated then. 

“I’m not,” I said, trying to appear unaffected. 

“I understand if you are upset about what happened yesterday or about today's ceremony, but I will not accept that you do not take this topic seriously. If you don't want to talk about your own thoughts, then please quote me some books you've read about the dangers of magical practices. You could maybe start with Professor Evergreen’s work.”

I still knew what he was doing, using books to make me talk, damn it, but it was so much easier to answer him now:

“Evergreen delves into the various dangers that can arise from the misuse of magic, including unintended consequences, magical backlash, and the corruption of the soul. She writes that one must always wield magic with the utmost care and responsibility,” I took a deep breath, continuing a bit too sarcastically, “lest… one unleash untold havoc upon the world.” Locke tilted his head to the side, but didn’t say anything. “She claims to cover everything magicians need to know about the responsible practice of magic. Outlines common pitfalls and hazards, provides tips for maintaining control over magical energies, and emphasises the importance of ethical conduct in spellcasting. Such a riveting stuff to read, really.”

“What else?” Locke gestured for me to continue.

“Well, for example Marcel Wyrmbane’s book, A Compendium of Catastrophic Conjurations , is quite fascinating, detailing the myriad ways in which magical spells can go disastrously awry. Though maybe his penchant for dramatic storytelling sometimes detracts from the seriousness of the subject, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” nodded Locke, and I glared at him – did he ever agree with me before on anything?

“On the other hand, I quite enjoyed The Tome of Eldritch ,” I went on, “and it also emphasises the importance of caution and restraint when wielding magical power. Though, in the meantime, it delves a bit into forbidden magic–”

“It does indeed.”

“– and lets you to glimpse into realms beyond mortal understanding, but if you're not into this whole risking-your-soul-for-unimaginable-power kind of thing–

“I would be glad to hear that you are not.”

“–then it’s not more dangerous than any other book.”

An ominous impassivity settled over Locke’s features. 

“Anything else?”

I searched in my memory for a bit. “Well, I have read Wizardry Woes , by Aldric Foad. He explores moral responsibilities that come with wielding magical power, and the consequences of using sorcery for personal gain or harm. He also has a great collection of cautionary tales, intended to serve as valuable lessons for aspiring magicians… but I don’t think you could take him very seriously, since he really did turn himself into a toad.”

Locke looked quite tired as he took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. 

“It's clear that you've been doing your reading,” he said, his tone calm and measured, “and I'm pleased to hear that you're familiar with Evergreen's work On the Ethical Practice of Sorcery. But just to make it clear: the only other books you have ever read on the topic are either an exaggerated dramatisation; a forbidden book, which, although warns you about the dangers, contains secrets that could unlock unimaginable power and plunge the unwary into madness; and some fairy tales penned by a lunatic whose credibility is questionable at best?”

I shifted uncomfortably on my seat, now feeling a bit ashamed about my enthusiasm; and at the same time, angry at Locke for making me feel this way.

“Not everyone has access to a library full of every book ever written on magic,” I said defensively. 

He sighed, then nodded. 

“You are right. I'm sorry for assuming we all have access to the same resources.”

I blinked in surprise.

“You are?”

“Yes, I am,” he nodded, still solemnly but now also a bit resigned. “But… and it’s important, William. You have to understand that I know almost nothing about you. Of course, I know more and more about your abilities, and I recognise that you love to read, you are curious and despite how much you try to hide it sometimes, you are genuinely interested in your studies. I know you have trouble accepting authority and that you tend to project confidence and sarcasm, especially when you feel anxious or threatened… no, hear me out, please. I also know that you find it hard to be an apprentice. But as your master I have to be able to trust you completely. If I take you with me on my travels, if I involve you in my work as a Counsellor, if we come to learn about the most complex and dangerous mysteries of magic, then I must be sure that I can trust you completely.”

There was a long silence while he eyed me with a questioning expression on his face. 

I swallowed hard.

“And what can I do?” 

“You could try things like being honest and open with me,” he suggested. 

“But I am honest and-”

“Don’t lie to me, please. I accept it if you don't share everything with me, but I won't stand lying. Never. Do you understand this?”

“I do,” I said a bit warily. 

“There are ways to find out the truth about anyone. Rest assured: if you give me the slightest reason to be suspicious, nothing will stop me from magically extracting the truth from you.”

Unfortunately, he seemed totally serious. 

“Is that clear?” he went on when I didn’t answer immediately.

“Absolutely,” I murmured.

“Good. Now, which branches of healing are you familiar with?”

I looked down briefly at my hand, held carefully on my lap, still searingly painful, throbbing and blistered in a few places. It seemed like the redness and the inflammation had even spread a bit. 

“Well, I–” None? “I know a few healing spells, and some healing elixirs, but I never really had the chance to practise.”

“What would you use on your hand?”

“Well, some basic herbal salves would probably be good for a burning… but might not be enough now. So maybe energy healing… channelling some magical energy directly into the wound to accelerate the body’s natural healing process could be efficient, but– but that requires a lot of control and precision, and…” I trailed off. He nodded in agreement. 

“So?”

“So I would– there’s runic healing, but you know I don’t know enough about runes to try it…”

“What would you do, then?”

I took a deep breath, then exhaled a bit tensely. I don’t know, why don’t you understand?

“I would probably use some spell.”

“What spell?” He, on the other hand, was still completely calm.

“I would go to the library, find a good spell, then use it.”

“Without ever having practised it?”

“Of course,” I said, not because I was so happy about trying new spells immediately on myself, no, even the most inexperienced wizard knows this is a really stupid thing to do; but because I was fed up with his constant questioning and had no better answer. 

He raised half an eyebrow.

“Alright. Then what would you do if you are not near a library?”

“I would make some salve. Or brew an elixir.”

“What if you don’t have any ingredients at hand?”

“Then I would go to a store and buy some.”

“Do you have money?”

“No…”

“So?”

“So what? Then I would wait until it gets infected and spreads and ends up with half my arm falling off, then I learn to live without it? What the hell do you want to–”

He slammed his palm on the table, and while I sat a little bit further back on the chair, I also felt a bit victorious – so he wasn't that calm under this guise after all!

His eyes narrowed, and he took a deep breath, the air hissing through his teeth. “When, William, will you realise that you don’t have to do everything on your own?”

I blinked. “What do you mean?”

“What I mean,” he said, each word deliberate and sharp, “is that you should not be thinking about losing an arm before you consider asking me for help.”

“But–”

“No, listen to me,” he interrupted, his voice rising. “You are my apprentice. You have immense power, and with that comes the need for control, precision, and discipline. Do you think I put you through rigorous training for my amusement? Do you think I question you endlessly because I enjoy hearing myself talk?”

“Well– I mean– yes?” I burst out, my tension suddenly turning into an awkward giggle. 

He glared at me with an unreadable face. I turned away, tried to stop my sudden laughing, and when I glanced back he was glaring exactly the same way. I bit my lip and tried to make a blank face.

“Sorry,” I murmured, still trying to arrange my face into some neutral expression. 

“Am I amusing you?” He lifted a single eyebrow. 

“No,” I said quickly. “Sorry.”

“Your attitude is going to get you into great trouble one day,” he sighed. “How could you take this more seriously? Do I have to be stricter with you?”

I stared at him dumbly for a moment. 

“Yeah,” I said slowly, nodding, “I was just thinking things were getting too easy.”

“William–”

“It’s brilliant,” I went on, still slow but getting quicker, “I was hoping for more sleepless nights and impossible tasks. What else could you do? Maybe double the training sessions? Triple them? Keep me up until dawn every night, then have me up at sunrise to start all over again? You could–”

“That would be enough , thank you.”

He didn’t even raise his voice, it was low and quiet, yet I went instantly silent. An icy chill ran down my spine as our eyes met, and I swear even the air in the room seemed colder. 

“I see you are anxious–” he started.

“I’m not–”

“Please stop defying me at every sentence,” he sighed, raising one of his hands to massage his temples. “I can see you are anxious, and it’s alright. It’s not a problem if you are anxious. The problem is when you give me this attitude.  If you keep defying me, we’ll both suffer the consequences. I don’t want to make your life harder, but I will if it means keeping you safe and focused.”

“I just really can’t imagine how you could make my life even harder,” I murmured, looking away. 

“Remember, when you were given the choice between the flogging and becoming an apprentice? Now, you're magically bound to this apprenticeship, but I can still strip you naked and flog you anytime I deem necessary.”

I stared at him, dumbfounded. 

“It doesn't have to come to that,” he added, but I was too stunned to appreciate his more patient and understanding tone.

“ Naked? ” I echoed. 

“Yes,” he nodded, totally indifferent. 

“But why? ”

If it weren't for the always stiff and cool Locke, I'd almost say he shrugged it off.

“Tradition,” he said. 

“Tradition,” I echoed. 

“As I said, it doesn't have to come to that," he went on, ignoring me. "But you need to understand the consequences of your actions. I won't hesitate to enforce discipline when necessary.”

“Okay,” I said, flabbergasted. 

“Now give me your hand,” he said in a totally indifferent tone. “It’s time for me to teach you some healing spells.”

 

 

It wasn't even dawn the next day when, on my way to the training ground, I got lost in the corridors. 

Maybe it happened because I was terribly tired, staying up late at night, reading The Chronicles of Aethria ; maybe I took a wrong turn somewhere. The point: I was standing at the end of a corridor, a closed door to my left and a narrow, steep wooden staircase leading down to my right. Not wanting to backtrack, I chose the stairs. 

The Sanctum around me seemed more and more ancient as I tried to find my way through the corridors, passages, locked doors, and winding staircases. The stairs took me lower and lower, and while I had to go down a few stories to the training ground, I began to wonder if I had descended too far.

I stopped abruptly at a corner. The walls here were paved with nice, orderly lines of dark red bricks, looking actually quite cosy, but the few ornately embroidered tapestries around me were all shabby and faded, coated in a thick layer of dust. Despite the long, worn-out carpet running down the middle of the corridor, the floor still creaked quietly under my steps. 

And there was a voice, quiet, melancholy, coming from my right. It didn’t sound exactly human, but I still felt as though I heard words, or some melody, sang tenderly, even a bit painful. 

I would probably sound wiser if I said here that I thought about what to do, or at least pondered for a little while where to turn – but the truth is that I didn't even notice that I had left until I was already deep down the corridor in the direction of that voice. 

Just a few steps, or so it seemed, and I found myself standing in front of a small, insignificant door. It opened when my fingers touched the handle, rattling and creaking, and I knew at once that this door had not been opened in at least a hundred years.

Inside, there was a tiny chamber. Empty walls, no windows and nothing else, just a small and round table in the middle. On the table, there stood a silver cage, and inside perched the most beautiful and dismal bird I have ever seen. 

Light glinted on her black feathers, revealing hues of deep red, blue and emerald green. The tip of her tail rose proudly, her graceful neck held straight and high. Her beak was dark orange, almost red, and her eyes were the deepest black I had ever seen. 

And she was singing, in a language I did not know, her song slow but melodic. It reminded me of forests after rain, the smell of the soil, the sound of running streams and the softly knocking hooves of the deer sliding between the trees. I remembered my mom tucking me in at night, both of us knowing very well that I hid my book under my pillow and I was going to keep reading after she left. I remembered a random morning in the monastery, going out for some fresh water and staying in the forest for two hours, practising levitating, one of the first proper spells I ever tried– and then I remembered a fire, huge and roaring, consuming everything except me, filling my lungs with smoke and the smell of burnt paper…

I stepped closer. The bird kept singing. I felt a tear running down my face.

“Why?” I asked quietly. 

She looked at me. Tilted her head to the side. Kept singing. 

I reached out, opening the small door on the cage. 

There was a brief moment of stillness. 

Then the bird, still singing, flew out, gliding around the tiny chamber in a circle, once, twice, thrice, with grace and easiness, as I followed with my eyes, captivated–

Then she landed on my shoulder, and for a moment I felt her claws tearing my shirt and digging into my skin, but at the same time, as soon as she touched me, I woke up .

 

I sat up in my bed as the first signs of sunlight appeared on the horizon to the east, above the peaked roofs of the city’s houses. My skin felt cold, my muscles tense and stiff. The Sanctum was silent, as always, yet it seemed like I could still hear the song, the somewhat eerie but so beautiful melody… but the harder I tried to remember it, the more it slipped away. I took deep breaths, trying to calm my pounding heart. 

Then, with a sense of urgency, I turned to the window.

To the lights over the dark rooftops. 

Damn, how late I’m going to be…!

But as I hastily dressed, I noticed the torn fabric of my shirt on my left shoulder. It was stuck to the drying blood above some long, deep scratch marks.

Chapter 8: Silence Amulet

A week passed, and I felt more exhausted than ever. Every day was a relentless cycle of training, studying, reading ancient books, memorising complicated spells, practising runes or brewing potions, and falling into bed dead tired each evening. 

There were things that went quite well, like I performed flawlessly all three dozen incantations that Locke didn't give me a full day to learn; and on another day I managed to be the first to solve a complex alchemical problem in Councillor Stone’s class (though I have no idea how). On the other hand, one day I accidentally mixed up two spells and somehow turned Locke’s hair into a chicken, which is much much worse than it sounds, because it was still attached to his head and he was not happy. 

 

“Again.”

I was silently growling as I picked up my sword. The sun was rising later, it was still really early in the morning, and I was tired and sore and the new defensive drill Locke tried to teach me was intricate and seemed ridiculously long. But still, I picked up my sword, sent Locke a grumpy look and tried again. 

With a deep breath I went through the motions, trying to focus on every little aspect he'd pointed out, but there were so many I couldn’t gather all my thoughts on what I was even supposed to do exactly. The stone was slippery under my boots in the morning dew, and glistened wet as the first light reached the courtyard. The days were getting colder. My practice sword was heavy in my hand, my muscles ached and I felt sluggish, even though the movements were slow anyway. Right before the end, I slipped and my falling sword landed heavily on my foot. I swore quietly. 

“You are not paying attention,” Locke announced. “It can be dangerous to be so unfocused.”

“Well I guess the real danger here is me falling asleep from boredom before I finish the move,” I rolled my eyes as I leaned down for my sword. 

When I straightened up, the tip of his sword was pointing at my chest. Instinctively, I took a small step back.

“Do you know why we practise these drills so many times?” he asked, his face blank but his eyes glittering ominously. 

“To learn control and self-discipline,” I answered, eying his sword warily. It was a practice sword, but it was still hard and heavy wood, and he could use it to make it really painful. 

“Do you find it so boring that you have to entertain yourself with these snide remarks?”

“Don’t worry,” I took another small step back, getting as far away from the range of his sword as possible, “There’s nothing I find entertaining about the situation.”

“Good. Let’s see what you have learned, shall we?”

I took two more cautious steps back, but he advanced, our swords meeting in the middle. My mind kindly provided me details like how tall he was compared to me, how the muscles in his arms flexed with every movement, how his fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword. It didn’t help that his eyes never left mine, intense and unyielding. 

Sidestepping, I tried to swing my sword towards his leg with a swift movement, but of course he knocked my attempt aside immediately. As I staggered back, the heel of my boot got caught in the uneven stone, throwing me off balance. He waited till I regained my footing, measuring me from head to toe with a doubtful expression on his face.

Another clash of swords, and I was acutely aware of the strength behind each of his movements. He lunged, and I barely deflected the blow. My eyes followed the curve of his jawline, the way a lock of hair fell across his forehead. Another swing, another parry. The scent of sandalwood and leather wafted over me, distracting me even more.

I swung my sword, aiming for his side. He blocked it easily, his fingers tightening around the hilt with practised ease. The force of his parry sent a shock up my arm, and I stumbled back, breathing heavily, tearing my eyes away from the muscles tensing in his arms.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked as he twirled his sword leisurely,  pressing me further back. I really hoped my face would not turn pink.

“Nothing,” I answered quickly, circling the courtyard to evade his blade.

“You are unusually unfocused today,” he remarked, still not even out of breath, and I threw myself to the ground and rolled over, barely avoiding his blow.

“And you are usually focused,” I murmured, standing up and stepping back quickly, thinking about how I should reassess my strategy, only to realise that I, of course, didn’t even have any strategy.

His lips curved into a faint smirk. “A valid observation,” he nodded. “Maybe you should try it one day. It is so much easier to learn if you manage to stop daydreaming.”

“I'm a multitasker,” I replied nonchalantly, trying to mask the unease I felt under his steady gaze. The words just spilled out before I could fully process them. “Thinking about how to improve while also admiring your flawless technique.”

 “Flattery won't save you from a bruise,” he said flatly as his sword landed heavily on my thigh. I gave a loud hiss, because it was painful, and he just raised an eyebrow and flourished his sword with so much unnecessary confidence. 

With a deep breath, I steadied myself, trying to block out the throbbing ache. The first beams of the sun glistened on Locke’s shiny coat buttons, his posture relaxed yet ready to strike again. I knew I couldn’t match his skill, not even if I got up every day before sunrise to practise for a decade. 

As Locke advanced, I retreated swiftly, parrying his strikes with growing desperation. Each clash reverberated through my arms, while his swordwork was precise, calculated, his face unreadable. 

Then I lunged first, hoping to catch him off guard, but he parried effortlessly, pushing me back with a swift counterstrike that left my arms tingling. The weight of my sword felt heavier with each exchange, sweat trickling down my forehead while his movements still seemed almost effortless. He feinted left, then swung low. I blocked, but his blade slid along mine with a force that made my sword slip from my hand. I managed to catch it mid-fall, but then I was so surprised by my luck that I threw it away by accident. I barely collected it when I already had to duck under a swing aimed at my head, feeling the breeze of his blade slicing through the air above me. 

I tried to counterattack, swinging with more force than finesse, but Locke anticipated my move. His sword met mine with a resounding clang, driving me back a step. I focused on defending myself, blocking and dodging as best I could, but it was so frustrating knowing that this was like child's play for him, that there wasn’t even the faintest sign of effort on his part–

The next time our swords collided, I let the hilt slip from my fingers and its momentum carried it through the air until it landed with a loud thud a few feet away. I raised both hands, and somehow this time I was so quick that he didn’t even realise what was happening as I sent a huge wave of raw magic in his direction. 

There was light and sound and elements around us, and then he made an otherwise really small, but still strong and definite gesture with a hand, and everything went still. The static buzzing in my ears stopped immediately. For a moment, everything seemed to freeze. Locke's eyes bore into mine, intense and unreadable. There was nothing, just the empty courtyard around us, the sun getting higher over the city and my heart pounding painfully loud in my chest. 

“You dare ?” 

Locke's voice cut through the tense silence, his tone a mix of incredulity and something deeper that I couldn't quite decipher. 

I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his stare. My hands hung at my sides, strained, the residual tingling of magic still coursing through my fingers. 

“I…” 

I what?

“Magic is not a tool for you to wield recklessly,” he said, his voice filled deeply with disappointment. 

“Right,” I muttered, shifting uncomfortably. It was disheartening how he was still scrutinising me with that hard face and dark eyes. 

“Especially, magic is not a weapon.”

“Because no one ever used magic for things like conquering countries or defeating our enemies, did they?” 

“You want to occupy countries now?”

“Of course not,” I rolled my eyes, frustrated.

“Magic is to be wielded with discipline and control.” He was still looking at me with that unreadable face, which was not just unnerving now but getting a bit frightening too. “Not something to be thrown around in a fit of frustration.”

“I didn't mean–” I started, but his raised hand silenced me.

“You didn't think ," he said firmly. "Magic requires discipline, focus, and control. What you did just now…” He trailed off, his expression unreadable.

Silence hung heavy between us, the courtyard around us eerily quiet.  

“We will talk about this,” he said finally. “For now, retrieve your sword. This lesson must end, or you will miss breakfast.”

“I didn't think you would mind if I missed breakfast,” I noted, not moving.

“Get your sword.”

“Are you worried it might grow legs and walk away?”

I'm such an idiot sometimes. 

He took a deep breath, his brows furrowing lightly. “You are lucky I haven’t sent you to the Council for this.”

“For not picking up my sword immediately?”

Maybe if I could stop cracking jokes at the worst times, Locke wouldn't look like he wants to throw me into the dungeon.

For a moment, he simply stared at me, then shook his head in disbelief.

“I don’t have patience for this,” he said finally. “I have an errand to run later today, and I think it's time you accompanied me.”

Now I was the one looking at him in disbelief. 

“Really?”

“Really,” he nodded with an impassive face, then gave a meaningful look at my sword lying on the ground. I followed his gaze, my fingers twiddling the hem of my coat. 

“Why now?” I asked. 

“There is no need to keep you confined to the Sanctum forever. You need to familiarise yourself with my work.” He stepped to the side, putting his own sword down neatly in its place. “Besides, this offers a valuable learning opportunity, a chance for you to see firsthand the kind of tasks and responsibilities that come with being a magician outside these walls.”

“Where are we going?”

“We'll be visiting a nearby artisan to inspect an artefact in her possession," he explained. "It's a routine check I conduct regularly for every artefact categorised under Order Major.”

I nodded, and while he gave another gaze at my sword, I put my hands in my pockets to hide my fidgeting. 

“This is what you do? There’s a list of every important artefact in the kingdom, and you go around to look at them?”

“This is part of my work, yes.” He gave a nod, standing still by the alcove, looking absolutely calm and collected. He leaned one hand on the column next to him leisurely, but his voice sounded cold and severe as he said, “Now pick up your sword, please.”

I glanced briefly at the sword, then back at him. He returned my look with narrowed eyes.

“I know you want to come with me,” he added, folding his arms across his chest.

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you can stay,” he shrugged, and I looked away, rolling my eyes. “You can stay inside the Sanctum for as long as you wish.”

“You blackmail me to do what you want,” I grumbled.

“Do I?” he scoffed.

“Could I come with you even if I leave the sword here?”

“No.”

“That’s blackmailing, then.”

He pushed himself away from the column and crossed the distance between us with two big steps. I stepped back instinctively, but he followed. 

Oh, pull yourself together.

“You should do what I say without any blackmailing, shouldn’t you?” he asked in a low voice, and I tried to stay still and by no means back away again, but he was standing so close, he was so tall and his eyes so dark– “If you pick up your sword now, perhaps I might believe that you are capable of following simple instructions instead of throwing tantrums.”

My legs didn't want to move. I didn’t really know why, because I obviously wanted to go with him, but for some reason it seemed so wrong to take those three steps to the sword and return it to its place.

He raised an eyebrow. 

I rolled my eyes, opened my mouth to say something, closed it again, clasped my hands into fists then relaxed them, looked at the sword, put my weight on my other leg– then with a sudden idea I pulled my right hand out of my pocket and with a short sequence of gestures the sword was rising from the ground and flying to its place on the shelf. It landed smoothly.

Locke gave a small, barely visible sigh. 

“There’s so much I would like to say now,” he said flatly.

“You usually don’t restrain yourself.” I tried to hit a carefree tone.

“Go, tidy up before breakfast,” he said, ignoring my comment. “Come to my office as soon as you're ready, I want to leave early.”

 

The streets of the city were bustling with morning activity as we made our way towards the artisan's workshop. Merchants were hawking their wares on the market, customers walking in every direction with baskets in their hands, children running from one stall to the other, gazing with big eyes at all the colourful, fragrant, often strange goods. I could tell there were a lot of magicians among the people, if only because a lot of vendors sold things specifically needed for magic.

But even if most magicians were no different from non-magical people, Locke's presence was definitely noticeable. His Councillor uniform seemed to draw the eye of every passerby, and I noticed how people subtly made way for him, some even nodding their heads in acknowledgment. Locke strode ahead with purpose, his cloak billowing behind him. 

He didn't speak until we turned onto a slightly less crowded street. There were tall, narrow buildings around us, their facades colourful and ornately carved. Small shops lined the street, offering all kinds of goods. One window displayed shimmering vials of potions, neatly labelled for ailments and enhancements. On the other side, there was a small, cosy bakery with golden loaves of bread and delicate pastries displayed in the open windows. The scent of fresh bread wafted out, and I took a deep breath, letting it fill my lungs. Two women were just leaving a seamstress’ store, chatting and laughing on the way. In a small alcove a bunch of kids were playing a game of marbles, and while I pondered with a mix of strange emotions that I had never played with marbles, Locke just frowned when one of the kids gave a shout of joy a bit too loud.

“So,” said Locke then, “You have this habit of sending raw magic at things or people when you are frustrated, you know?”

I nodded absently, my attention caught by the quaint bookstore we were passing. The sign above the door was intricately carved with an emblem of an open book surrounded by swirling stars, and the window display was a mix of old leather-bound tomes and new volumes in colourful covers.

“You need to understand that using raw magic impulsively is dangerous,” Locke went on. “It’s not something to be taken lightly.”

There was an elderly man inside the shop, sorting through a stack of books behind the counter. Shelves stretched up to the ceiling, and even if there were far more books in the Sanctum’s library, I still wondered what other volumes could I find there. 

I already had to crane my neck back to peer through the window, so when Locke stopped in front of me, I walked right into him.

“You are not allowed to step into bookshops,” he said, and while his voice was cold there was a small, amused smile playing in the very corner of his mouth. 

I had to take a step back to regain my balance. “Why not?”

He gave me a long look, his voice carrying a hint of provocation. “Do you have any money?” 

“You know I don’t,” I murmured, glancing at an elderly couple walking by who regarded me 

as if agreeing with Locke's statement, even though they could not know what we were talking about. I rolled my eyes at them as they walked away.

Locke nodded slowly, his gaze turning more serious. “And we wouldn't want a repeat of how we first met, would we?”

I stiffened with a flush of indignation. “Just because I might have stolen a book once –” 

“Could you look into my eyes and say that was the only time? The day we met? That you never stole any book before that?” 

I looked up at his eyes, dark and serious, then I looked away. Kept my mouth closed.

He gave a smug nod. “I thought so.”

“That was different,” I shot back defensively. “How long will you have such a bad opinion of me because of that?”

He looked a bit taken aback at this. “I don’t have a bad opinion of you,” he said in a surprised tone, like he was really, honestly stricken by my belief. 

“Yeah, right,” I rolled my eyes. “Then I don’t even want to know what it is like when people really do have bad opinions of me.”

I stepped around him and resumed walking towards the end of the street. A moment later he caught up, and at the next corner he led me into a narrow street where we soon reached a square.

“When was the first time you used magic like that?” he asked then, as if we were just in the middle of a casual conversation. 

“Like what?” I asked, and my voice sounded sullen, though I really was unsure what he meant. 

“Like what you did today. You didn’t use a spell, or an enchantment, or any form of controlled channelling. No runes, no sigils. Just raw magic, unleashed.”

“Is that so bad?” I still wasn’t looking at him, fixing my gaze on the cobblestones in front of my steps. 

“There’s a reason we don’t do that,” he said simply. “Channelling provides structure, control, and safety. When you cast a spell, you’re shaping the magic, giving it form and direction. Raw magic is powerful, probably the most powerful force in the universe, but it’s unpredictable. And incredibly dangerous.”

“Sorry,” I murmured, not sure what he expected from me. 

“There’s… another reason we don’t really do this,” he went on, and I saw from the corner of my eyes that he glanced at me, his expression a bit troubled.

“Yeah?”

“ Yeah . Do you realise that most magicians are simply not able to manipulate raw magic?”

I looked up at him. “What do you mean, not able ? It’s so simple it pretty much just happens on its own.”

“That’s what I find the most worrying,” he said with a grim expression, but then he gave a small sigh and stopped, gesturing towards a nearby building. “We are here.”

 

There was a sign above the door, made from dark wood, depicting a mortar and a pestle in front of some delicate vines. The house was the biggest one on this square, with neat brick walls, three storeys and a dark green roof. 

“She’s a herbalist,” Locke said as we walked up to the door. “And a healer. One of the best in the kingdom.”

When he pushed the door open, a soft chiming sound announced our arrival. Inside, the workshop was filled with the soothing scent of dried herbs and simmering potions. Shelves lined the walls, full of jars of various shapes and sizes, each containing a different herb, root, strange ingredient or colourful potion. A huge oak table dominated the centre of the room, full of alchemical tools and books and parchments, all neatly ordered. 

The artisan emerged from a back room, through a heavy, beige curtain. She wore a simple, immaculately clean apron over a long dress. Her hair was grey, woven into a long braid. She broke into a big smile as soon as she saw Locke. 

“Oh, Councillor Locke! It is always such a pleasure to see you.”

“Likewise, Elara,” nodded Locke as they shook hands. “It is an honour working with you.”

“And I saw that you didn’t arrive on your own!” She sounded so enthusiastic that I felt my cheeks turning a bit pink. I glanced at Locke, and it was evident that he did not share her enthusiasm. 

“Allow me to introduce my apprentice, William Alden. His initiation was just a week ago.”

“So nice to meet you too, William,” she beamed, and she was shaking my hand too. Her hands were soft, but her grip firm. “I’m Elara Dawai. Welcome to my workshop.”

“Nice to meet you, madam,” I mumbled.

“I am sure you are an earnest and diligent student of Councillor Locke.”

I did not dare to look at Locke now. “Well, I’m–”

“He has room for improvement,” Locke said stiffly. 

“Oh, come on, Councillor! I can tell you that he’s a good kid. I can tell such things about people. Although,” she squinted back at me, “he looks quite young. How old are you, William?”

“Twenty-two.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you sure?”

She looked at me curiously, and a few steps behind her, Locke also had a suspicious tilt of his head. There was a beat, and I knew that too much time had passed, damn it, why couldn't I answer straight away?

“Of course I am,” I said, trying to sound indignant, but avoiding her eyes.

“Oh, that’s… interesting.” She nodded thoughtfully, but then shook her head and turned back to Locke. “But it’s not my business. He can see the artefact, right?”

“Right,” nodded Locke. “Maybe he will learn something today.”

That hurt, because what the hell , what am I doing every single day but learning an immeasurable amount of things? But I followed them as she led Locke into another room, then up a wooden staircase to a smaller office. 

It soon turned out that examining ancient and valuable artefacts is not a really exciting pastime. Locke asked for ledgers and documents, and they sat and compared the data with previous ones and talked about permits and safety measures. My mind quickly wandered away, and I looked at the shelves, full of herbs and ingredients here too, meticulously organised, but the labels were written in a language I did not understand. There was a window, looking out over the small square, and my eyes followed the people and the carriages moving in every direction, thinking about other cities and other windows. 

Locke's snapping voice pulled me back from my reverie.

“William, are you paying attention?”

“I am,” I answered automatically, though I had no idea what they were talking about. 

“Do you know what the artefact is that we're here for?” Locke asked. 

“How would I know since you did not tell me?”

Dawai gave a small chuckle while Locke sighed.

“It is a Silence Amulet. We won’t be able to talk while I inspect it.” He arranged his papers into a neat pile, and started to stand up. “You can come with us, but don’t touch anything.”

Dawai led us out of the office, and we ascended another storey. There was a corridor that seemed longer than the whole building itself.

“I use it for some herbs,” Dawai said on the way. “There are species that grow the best in complete silence. There are other silence amulets, of course, but this one is special. I inherited it from my mentor, who inherited it from his mentor. It has a history almost as long as the Council itself. Makes it much more powerful.” We arrived in front of a door, not looking any different from the other doors on the corridor. “It can be strange at first,” said Dawai, giving me a smile and a nod, before she opened the door and we entered. 

And the silence hit me. It was profound, not just an absence of noise but a tangible force. I looked at Locke, but he seemed totally undisturbed. I tried to take deep breaths, to slow my racing heart, but it was so strange, not hearing my breathing, or the rustle of my clothes, or the usual small sound as I swallowed, tense. 

As I looked around, I noticed that even the air was different here, cooler, fresher, with a faint earthy scent. Rows and rows of potted plants filled the room, so many that it almost seemed like a meadow. 

In the centre of the room, on a simple wooden pedestal, lay the Silence Amulet. It was made of a dark, polished stone, etched with intricate runes that seemed to shimmer in the dim light. The whole room seemed to pulse with its energy, every corner vibrating, and I could feel the magic prickling my skin in the utter, unnerving silence. 

I still stood by the door, but Locke was already by the Amulet, and Dawai moved gracefully through the room, checking her plants with practised ease. Each plant seemed to thrive in this unique environment, full of lush, vibrant green leaves and delicate flowers in every colour. Despite the silence, the room felt alive.

Locke took out his notebook and began to scribble notes, his pen moving silently across the paper. Dawai stepped closer to him, and sometimes they gestured or pointed, but I had absolutely no idea what they were communicating about. I wandered off, watching my heavy boots making absolutely no noise on the stone floor. 

There was a small plant with pale violet leaves, emitting a sweet fragrance that hung in the air. There were flowers that glowed in the dark corners. There were shrubs with thorns as long as my forearm. There were pots with plants that were invisible, and there were glass jars filled with things that looked like roots without plants, and there were plants hanging from the ceiling, alive and strong, without any soil.

There was a tall, spindly plant with leaves so dark they seemed black in the dimly lit room. As I walked closer, I could feel magic in the air, strong and powerful. My movements made no sound when I stepped towards it. I felt my breath slowing down as I raised a hand and touched a leaf, fascinated.

Almost instantly, a sharp, burning pain shot through my hand, causing me to yank it back in shock. Looking down, I saw angry red welts spreading rapidly across my skin. I stumbled backward, panicking, and collided with a table, knocking over a pot.

There wasn’t any sound, but Locke's eyes still snapped towards me. His expression shifted from concentration to disbelief in an instant. He crossed the distance between us in a few long strides, grabbed my arm, and practically dragged me out of the room. The sudden movement made the pain flare up even more, and I struggled to keep up without knocking over anything else.

Once we were out of the room and back in the corridor where sound existed again, Locke's voice was harsh and sounded like shouting after all that silence. “I told you not to touch anything!”

“I– I didn’t mean to,” I stammered, gasping for breath as the pain made my vision blurry. He held my wrist, looking at the angry red welts forming on my fingers. 

Dawai appeared at the doorway, calm and composed. She held a small vial in her hand. “Let me see,” she said gently, touching my fingers with a light hand and examining the welts. “It's a common reaction to the emberloom leaves. Nothing to worry about, just a bit of pain.”

Locke's grip on my wrist tightened, and I flinched at the pain. “Common reaction or not, he needs to be more careful.”

Dawai smiled softly. “He'll learn. Here,” she said, applying a few drops from the vial onto my skin. The relief was almost immediate, the burning pain subsiding into a dull throb. “This should help with the pain. The welts will fade in a few hours.”

“Thank you, madam.”

Locke's expression softened slightly, but he still looked displeased. “He will learn, but it would be nice if he would learn pretty quickly to follow my instructions.”

“Of course,” Dawai responded thoughtfully, her gaze shifting to me. “You seem like a curious student, but your master is right. Curiosity is essential for learning, especially in our craft, yet discipline is the anchor that ensures we don’t wander astray.”

I winced at her words, hanging my head. Locke was still holding my wrist and I could not move away. Feeling contrite, I muttered an apology. “Sorry, madam. I hope I didn't cause too much damage.”

“Nothing, my dear. Now, let us finish our work, shall we?”

“You can wait downstairs,” Locke told me grimly. “Find a chair, sit down, and do not move from there. You have caused enough trouble.”

I glared at him, and he glared back, until I couldn’t take it anymore and so that I wouldn't have to look away in defeat, I rolled my eyes. “If you insist,” I grumbled, then turned around and headed for the stairs. Behind my back, I could hear Dawai’s low chuckle, and Locke’s sharp inhale, but I was already halfway down and he had no time to say anything else. 

I sat down, my hand still throbbing faintly. I followed Locke’s instructions to the letter, and sat down, but since he didn’t say anything else about what I should do, I grabbed a book from the table and passed the time with some reading. 

I read almost fifty pages before they came down.

“It’s as remarkable as ever. Your care for it is commendable, Elara”, Locke was saying. 

“Oh, it’s my duty and my honour, Councillor.”

“Still, your care and dedication are exemplary.”

“Thank you so much,” Dawai beamed. “I appreciate your diligence in ensuring the safety of our artefacts.”

Locke nodded to Dawai, then gestured for me to stand up. I tried to quietly put the book back in its place, but of course it didn't escape his attention. His eyes flashed angrily, but he said nothing.

“It was a pleasure meeting you both,” Dawai said. 

“Thank you for your hospitality, Elara. We will be in touch.”

Notes:

Heeej, thank you so much for reading <3

Chapter 9: Aurora Device

Summary:

Things are moving forward. Slowly.

 

As we exited the workshop, Locke's steps were swift and purposeful, his expression clouded with barely contained frustration. I kept pace beside him, acutely aware that the silence between us was thick with tension. The people on the street moved out of his way. 

“You know what I don’t understand?” he said as we turned on another corner, his voice eerily calm.

“What?” 

“You were perfectly polite with her. You are capable of being respectful.”

He gave me a hard look, looking like he expected an answer. “Well… yes?” I said tentatively. 

“This was your first time accompanying me on an assignment,” he continued, his voice tight with disappointment. “And you managed to embarrass me in front of one of the most  knowledgeable and respected magicians in the city.”

“She didn’t seem angry…”

“That doesn't change the fact that you acted like an undisciplined child back there,” he snapped. “Perhaps we should have left you to suffer with that pain, shouldn’t we?”

He looked at me with half an eyebrow raised, and I grabbed my hand protectively, the pain faded but still there. 

Locke's steps faltered as he turned to face me, his eyes ablaze with controlled fury. “Listen carefully,” he began in a low voice. “From now on, you will follow my orders without hesitation. If you ever disobey again, the consequences will be severe. Understood?”

“Of course,” I mumbled, my voice full of unenthusiasm.

His hand shot out and grabbed my chin, turning me to face him. I looked at him reluctantly, acutely aware of the small noise of every pair of feet that passed us on the street.

“What do you say?” he snapped. 

There was a flick deep in my stomach, and I tried to wiggle myself free, looking away again. He held me strong.

“What do you say?” he repeated. 

“I’m sorry?” I tried, my heart beating fast in my chest. 

Locke's eyes narrowed, his patience wearing thin. “That’s not what I asked,” he growled, tightening his grip slightly. “I said that you will follow my orders, or there will be consequences. Do you understand?”

His intensity forced me to meet his gaze. “I... understand,” I finally admitted begrudgingly.

“You understand…?” he pressed, his voice cold and commanding.

“I understand… sir.”

“Say it again. More convincing.”

“I understand, sir,” I repeated through gritted teeth. 

Locke's grip on my chin relaxed slightly, his eyes still fixed on mine with a mix of scrutiny and satisfaction. The tension in the air seemed to ease marginally, but the weight of his expectations lingered heavily between us.

“Good,” he said curtly, releasing my chin at last. “Remember this, William. Your compliance is not optional. The next time you're tempted to act impulsively, think of the consequences. Now let’s go. We have a lot to do today.”

I rolled my eyes slightly, thinking he wouldn't notice, but his sharp gaze caught the movement immediately. His face darkened, and he stepped closer, his voice low and menacing. “One more thing, my little apprentice. If you roll your eyes at me one more time , I swear I’m going to lock you up in a cell. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” I answered, taken aback.

“Good. Let’s go.”

I stomped after him, no longer caring about the opinions of passers-by. It was difficult to walk back towards the Sanctum, where nothing but further suffering at Locke's hands awaited me, and I glared at his back, imagining – well, I wanted to imagine all kinds of horrible things happening to him, but somehow my mind always came up with fantasies about Locke being – kinder. 

It was a bright day, but as we took another turn into a crowded square where a market was held, I noticed that the weather was starting to match my mood. Dark shadows grew around us, grey, almost black clouds covering the sky. I kept my gaze fixed on the ground, letting my mood simmer, feeling restless with pent-up energy and tension. 

I was slow to realise what was happening. As I looked around, people were already shouting and running in every direction. A child was crying loudly, and vegetables rolled down the cobblestones from a vendor’s overturned table.

Locke was already in action, casting spells, and two other magicians ran to him, looking for instructions. I marvelled at how quickly and effectively he handled the situation, despite being the Councillor only of the artefacts.

He would probably kill me if he ever heard that thought.

His voice rang out. “Contain the area! Don’t let the Dusk spread further!” And this was just the moment when my eyes slipped to the creatures, at the edges of the square, where the gloom was the darkest. They had vaguely human-like form, but the edges were difficult to discern, constantly shifting and disintegrating into the surrounding darkness, tendril-like extensions writhing out. I was shivering, unable to move, just standing there and staring at the Dusks’ eerie silhouettes that flickered and blurred, until a strong hand gripped my forearm and dragged me away. 

Locke drew a wall of protective charm at one of the side streets where the darkness of Dusk had not yet reached, and now he pushed me through it, next to many other people who were looking for their loved ones and running away. 

“No,” I said, struggling in his grip.

“You stay here,” he snapped. “Whatever happens, you are staying here!”

So I was just standing there, and while people next to me ran as fast as they could into the other direction, I watched, horrified, as the Dusk enveloped the people who were unable to escape. There was a man, seemingly strong and vigorous, who was now lying on the ground, dark shadows wrapped around him, and his skin was turning an ashen grey, eyes wide with terror and pain, mouth open in a scream. There was an older woman who tried to fight the creatures with surprisingly great physical power, but it was evident that it had no use against the Dusk; and by the time Locke reached her and freed her with a few spells, she was lying on the ground with a chillingly expressionless face. 

Locke basically single-handedly pushed the Dusk back from one side of the square, the other two magicians helping mostly by supporting the wounded. Locke was fascinating to watch, almost like dancing through the shadows, casting bright spells at the Dusk, the air crackling around him with magic. I watched in awe as he weaved between the tendrils of the Dusk, seemingly calm and focused, despite the chaos unfolding around him. With each spell the creatures recoiled, their dark forms twisting and dissipating under his magic.

But all this happened on the perimeter of the square, in the dark shadows under the high walls of the houses. The middle of the square was mostly deserted, only the scattered goods were lying around, and the two magicians were guiding the injured towards safer areas. No one really had the time or the power to care for the single Dusk creature in the middle of the market; it was the biggest of them all, its form oddly solid. It even had the power to hold a sword in its long hand, its long, grotesque fingers wrapped tightly around the handle. My gaze followed the blade of the sword from the hilt to the tip, and though it was quite far away, I still heard the horrible, screeching sound as it scratched the cobblestones on the ground. The sword itself seemed quite real, solid, as dark as the eyes of the creature, endlessly painful– I gulped as our eyes met, unable to breathe for a moment. 

It quickly approached me and I involuntarily took a step back, despite the light blue glittering of the protective spell still sheltering me and the street. Then my eyes slid away from the creature, to the ground between us, and I realised we were not alone: there was a young girl, by the looks of it not even ten, who chose exactly that moment to emerge from behind an upturned crate where she had been hiding. She stopped dead when she saw the creature. 

“Run!” I shouted. “Run! Here, behind the shield! Now!”

But the girl's feet seemed to be rooted to the ground, because she just stared at the creature, her whole body trembling, and didn't move.

“Fuck,” I murmured as I ran through the protection wall. The girl was about halfway between me and the Dusk, me running as fast as I could, the creature sliding through the air towards us, bringing cold air and darkness and bad memories with it.

“Come on!” I yelled and grabbed the little girl’s arm. She stumbled, but then she seemed to find her footing and her power, because she was screaming, and we started to run back together, her fingers digging deeply into my right hand. The creature was so close now I could feel the dark magic radiating from it. There were icy black tendrils reaching after us, and I turned halfway back, stumbling, and raised my left hand high to send some magic towards the creature, concentrating on light and goodness , because otherwise I had no idea what spells could be used against a creature made from shadows and dark magic. It swung the sword towards us, and the sharp blade cut through the skin of my left hand, the pain searing and immediate. But then the creature was left behind us, and I did not turn back to see what was happening with it, as we ran towards the shield.

When we were through the blue glittering wall of safety and I glanced back, the creature was gone. Almost the whole square was Dusk-free, there was only a small patch of darkness and Locke was already casting spells at it. The little girl was still clinging to my arm, her face covered in tears, and I wanted to raise a hand and probably pat the top of her head soothingly, but dark blood was dripping from the tip of my fingers to the ground, so I decided against it. She seemed shocked enough without me smearing blood all over her hair. 

The girl took deep breaths, cleared her throat and said “You are bleeding” in a much stronger voice than I expected. 

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s not deep, though. Where are your parents?”

“I’m here with my brother, but I don’t–” She stopped, her face lighting up in an instant as a boy slightly younger than me ran to us, through the shield, took the little girl in his hands and they spun around, laughing and relieved. I looked away. 

“You saved her,” the boy said then. “A magician was helping me, over the butcher’s shop back there, but I saw how you saved her. I don’t know how to thank you. It was so brave and–”

“Yes, it was very good,” said an icy voice, cutting him off. It was Locke arriving next to us, his clothes immaculate and tidy, maybe just his hair was a little messier than usual after defeating all the creatures on his own. He grabbed my left arm with such force that I hissed, then lifted it to his face and quickly examined the cut. He practically threw my arm back with a snort.“We are leaving now.”

We all stared at him, shocked.

“It's such an honour,” stuttered the boy. “Councillor, we are full of gratitude and–”

Locke wasn’t even listening to him. He was rummaging in the inside pockets of his cloak, until he managed to find what he was looking for – a small vial of Auric Dust.

“Why are we–” I started, but he silenced me with just an icy look. 

“Councillor,” the boy was still trying to talk to Locke. “This young man saved the life of my sister. How could I–”

“Your sister’s life was not in danger,” snapped Locke, while he grabbed my shoulder, yanked me closer and smeared a line of the fine, golden powder on my forehead. “These few creatures can’t really harm anyone as long as magicians are in the city.”

“You are so noble for protecting us,” the boy bowed his head.

“I don’t know,” said the little girl suddenly, squinting up at Locke. “He seems kind of rude to me.”

“Minka!” snapped the boy, glaring at his sister, shocked. Locke just shook his head and started to murmur the spell for the travel. My eyes met the girl’s, and she gave me a mischievous smile which I returned a little awkwardly,, just before Locke finished the spell and we disappeared into nothingness. 

 

“What’s wrong?” I asked as soon as I managed to take a breath without feeling like vomiting after we arrived. We were at the entrance of the Citadel, but Locke was already grasping my wrist and yanking me after him, through the elegant corridors, between wandering magicians and non-magical visitors. He only stopped for a moment in front of a large door, where he ordered me not to move, then disappeared inside for a few words, I guessed informing the Council about what happened. Then he was back and we continued marching through the corridors. 

“How do you feel?” he asked suddenly as we crossed the garden between the Citadel and the Sanctum. 

“I’m… okay?” I did not understand why he was asking this. I was a bit dizzy, but travelling by Auris Dust can make everyone feel strange things.

“Hm,” he said, and then he didn’t say anything else. We hurried inside the grand hall, but then, instead of turning to the usual, narrow corridor, he led me to a staircase. 

“Where are we going?” I asked when we had already climbed up two storeys.

“To an artefact storage,” he said.

“An artefact-storage?” Maybe something happened to him during the fight? Maybe this is some strange side effect of the Dusk, going crazy and dragging your apprentice with you into your obsessive work? “What the hell are we doing in–”

“Quiet,” he snapped, and I closed my mouth, dumbfounded. 

This part of the Sanctum looked even older and more neglected. We arrived at a long corridor, with empty walls and no windows. The doors were marked with black numbers, and we went to the number 7, which opened at a quick movement of his hand. He stepped in, but my wrist slipped from his grip as I hit an invisible barrier over the threshold. I staggered back, feeling even dizzier than before. He turned back impatiently, and when he saw what happened he didn’t say anything, just cast another quick spell, grabbed me again and yanked me through the door. 

On every other occasion, being inside an ancient, confidential artefact storage would have been a lovely adventure. Now he was just hurrying along the tall lines of shelves and I had no time even to look around properly. In the end we arrived at a wider space between all those shelves, where a few dusty tables and chairs stood. 

“Sit,” he ordered, pushing me down into a chair. 

“Would you tell me–”

“There are many things I will tell you,” he said, his voice promising an unpleasant future, “but we have a more important task first. Stay put.”

I stayed, partly because I didn’t really dare to oppose him in this strange mood, partly because I still felt quite light-headed and weak. 

Locke reappeared, and slammed something heavy and quite austere-looking thing on the table before me. It was roughly around the size of a book, made from dark wood and wrought iron.

“I never thought we are going to need one of these again,” he muttered, moving his hand above the object. Following his movements, the intricate carvings in the thick wood glowed up with a bluish light, and iron bars rose up on both sides. “Put your hand inside.”

“What is it?”

“ Now .”

“But–”

He grabbed my left wrist and stuck my bloody hand unceremoniously down on the wooden panel, pressing my palm down.

“It’s a special Aurora Device,” he said in a dark tone. His hands were constantly moving over mine, trailing complicated spells, making the wooden surface hot under my palm. “You have umbricide poisoning. The creature you encountered, despite my clear and explicit instructions to stay behind the barrier, was a Dusk Knight,” he explained. “They should be all gone,” he added sourly. “Their sword is only poisonous for magical people, so that little girl might have suffered a bit from the possession if the creature reached her, but she wouldn't have been permanently harmed. Unlike you, who will be killed by the poison in a slow and excruciatingly painful way. It spreads through your veins, slowly paralysing you. You'll be dead in a few hours if we don't treat it.” He made a few light gestures, and the metal parts of the device slowly wrapped themselves around my hand, securing it in place. “So if I say that you put your hand in this rare and special healing device, which is the only thing now that can save your life, then you do as I say , understood?”

“I was cautious,” I said in a small voice, not looking at him. “I went–”

“You went out to fight one of the most dangerous creatures of the Dusk,” he cut in, “right after I told you to stay put, right after we have just talked about you having to follow my orders!”

“Yeah, I went for the girl, but then I went straight back! I was trying to obey!”

“That’s not enough,” he hissed, leaning down and slapping the device with another spell. Now I saw that the blood covering my hand had an oddly dark colour. “You disobeyed a direct order. Yes, you were brave, and I understand that you wanted to act good, but a moment of bravery does not rectify your reckless disobedience. This almost cost you your life today. That’s it, if we can still save your life. Brace yourself.”

I didn’ know what to brace myself for, and my head was pounding more with every shaky breath I took, so I only nodded. Locke made a final gesture towards my hand. The air glowed first with a bluish light around the device's iron arms, covering my skin in a strange, barely transparent glow. But then that light turned to red, and at the same time, pain erupted through my veins as if every nerve in my body was aflame. My vision blurred, and I let out an involuntary cry.

“ What the hell ?” 

“A valuable experience, maybe?” Locke said, his tone unreadable as he stepped back and leaned against a desk with an air of detached authority. 

“What?” I gasped, as the pain reached a new peak I didn’t even know existed, causing my entire body to tremble involuntarily. 

“You need to learn that your actions have consequences,” he continued, his tone laced with a hint of some bloody satisfaction , “and that sometimes those consequences come with pain.”

It wasn’t just simple pain. It was a dreadful sensation, starting from my hand and coursing through my entire body, almost unbearable. 

Locke’s expression remained impassive, but his eyes gleamed with an unsettling mix of complacency and– and something darker. “You rushed into danger, ignoring my explicit instructions,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Now, you’re experiencing the price of disobedience firsthand.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to breathe evenly. The metal held my hand firmly in place, and probably some magic too, because I couldn’t even budge a finger. I straightened my back, took deep breaths, bit my lip to stop its trembling.

“Oh, you can’t hide it,” Locke’s voice cut through my suffering. “No amount of pride will shield you from this pain.”

I shook my head faintly, beads of sweat forming on my brow as I struggled to maintain a semblance of composure.

“Am I wrong?” His voice sounded unsettlingly satisfied. “Well?” I opened my eyes, and he was watching me with a dark, almost hungry gaze, leaning closer. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

I clenched my jaw, refusing to acknowledge the truth. But it was relentless, like a thousand needles piercing my skin from the inside, and I doubled over, clutching my free hand to my chest. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I blinked them away furiously.

“No,” I groaned, glaring at him through the haze of agony. I couldn't help a whine as another wave of pain shot through my hand. “No.”

Locke’s lips curled into a faint, humourless smile. “Good. Now endure it. Maybe this moment can teach you something.”

“Yes, sir,” I muttered through gritted teeth and with a sharp intake of breath as the pain surged anew. Tears threatened to spill despite my efforts to hold them back.

His tone remained icy as ever. “Perhaps next time you'll think twice before being so reckless.”

Notes:

Thanks for reading *.*
Any feedback is greatly appreciated!

Chapter 10: Questions

Summary:

Mostly just people talking to each other.

Notes:

Have a happy reading ^^

The next morning I woke up unusually late. My room was dimly lit, with the morning light filtering through the curtains in soft streaks. It was quiet, as it almost always was in the Sanctum, and the air vibrated faintly with magic. Gingerly, I lifted my left hand. It was whole, unharmed, and alive. I flexed my fingers tentatively, half-expecting to feel residual agony shooting up my arm, but there was only a dull ache now. 

Pushing myself up slowly, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and sat there for a moment, gathering my strength. There was no training that morning because Locke was at a Council meeting, but he said that I needed to rest anyway. After the Aurora Device had done its job and it was certain that I would survive, he helped me back to my room, ordering me into bed, which I didn’t protest—not just because I was a bit scared of him at the moment but also because I felt utterly spent, barely able to lift a finger. He said that this was normal and a good night of sleep would help, then brought me a small, delicate crystal vial filled with a soothing potion. He even complimented how tidy my room was.

I got out of bed and dressed slowly. My fingers trembled a little as I carefully slid the buttons into place, and the room around me seemed unusually still. My thoughts lingered on how Locke called yesterday's Dusk creatures few, that “can’t really harm anyone” – but it was hard to forget the scene as the corners of the square fell into black gloom, and out of the darkness human-like figures reached out towards the helpless people. Who knew what nightmares they had made true for them? And then Locke was so angry– 

There was a tightness in my chest and a subtle ache in my gut as I yanked my shoelaces tight and pulled my coat on, suddenly hasty to leave my room. 

As I stepped into the Refectory, hushed conversations and faint clinking of cutlery greeted me. I could feel eyes on me and hear the whispers, but I did not look at anyone as I sat down next to Sol. He handed me the kettle wordlessly.

It would be good for me, having a quick breakfast on my own, staring at my plate and not saying a word to anyone, but as soon as I took a spoonful of porridge into my mouth, with loud steps Gavin arrived. 

“Well, well, well, look who's here,” he sneered, pulling out a chair and sitting down a few seats away, across the table. He spoke with a raised voice, so everyone around the table could hear him clearly.

I glanced at him, then turned back to my bowl. Not worth it.  

“I heard you were heroic yesterday,” Gavin went on. “But I find it curious that you happen to be there every time the Dusk shows up. Don’t you?”

“What do you mean?” I frowned.

“Twice now, Will,” he said. “Twice the Dusk appears, after centuries, and somehow you are there both times. Don’t you find it curious?”

“No, I don’t,” I murmured, trying to keep my tone neutral. I turned back to my food, my appetite suddenly gone.

Gavin wasn't done, though. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “Come on. You just happened to be in the right place at the right time?”

“Yeah,” I snapped, my voice sharper than intended. 

Another apprentice, a girl a few years higher than us, asked Gavin, “What are you suggesting?”

“Don't tell me it's not suspicious to you, Tessa” answered Gavin, looking at the others too. I glanced around quickly, too, daring the apprentices to side with Gavin. A few seemed like they would gladly. “I bet he has something to do with Dusk. Maybe he’s got a secret deal with those monsters, huh? Bringing them in, for all we know.”

A deep silence settled over the table. I looked up slowly. Gavin was watching me with a triumphant expression

Then Sol spoke up, his voice calm and loud in the stillness of the Refectory. “Leave it, Gavin. This isn't helping anyone.”

“I have nothing to do with the Dusk,” I said, my voice strangely echoing in my head. 

“The Council will see about that, I guess,” said Mirn, nodding to Gavin. “No one can deny that this is at least strange.”

“Of course it’s strange,” said Tessa, “the Dusk appearing again after centuries, this close to the Citadel? I wonder what the Council would do in this situation.”

“They would have to consult the King now,” Olivia spoke, thoughtfully. “This could be anything, even an attack from the outside.”

“The King,” Gavin scoffed. “And what would he do? Continue sitting in his ivory tower, waiting for us to protect him and his precious kingdom? The royals are useless. It’s the magicians who have the power, the knowledge to protect this realm.”

A murmur rippled through the apprentices.

“But–”

“Gavin–”

“Yes–”

“You’re talking treason,” Sol said, his voice hardening. “We’re here to protect the realm, not to overthrow it.”

“I didn’t say to harm the royals,” Gavin shrugged. A sly smile crept across his face as he added, “In fact, I wouldn’t mind a little ‘one-on-one’ time with Princess Ilara, you know what I mean, right? She’s got the looks to match the crown, at least. Might be the only useful thing about her.”

Someone laughed, and someone else gave an outraged cry, but I was not paying attention. I stood up, sent a wave of some malevolent magic in the direction of Gavin, then left amidst the shocked shouting. 

 

The worst was the possibility that Gavin was right. I stormed along the corridors, stomping up the stairs. What do I even know about the Dusk? About myself?

Finnian was waiting in front of my door. 

“What?” I snarled at him.

“Councillor Locke sent me,” he said, ignoring my tone. “He asked me to inform you that he is waiting for you.”

I stopped for a moment, glaring at him, thoughts racing through my mind. 

“Waiting for me where?”

“He asked me to accompany you to… to one of the interrogation rooms.”

He seemed sympathetic. I took a deep breath, then just shrugged. 

“Okay,” I said, and he was already in front of me, leading the way. “But I don’t think Locke ever asked me anything,” I murmured.

“What do you mean?” Finnian glanced back over his shoulder.

“He usually just orders me around,” I shrugged. Finnian did not answer, so we continued our journey in silence to the Citadel. 

 

I was sitting in an almost empty room, alone. There was a small table, a chair in which I sat and a few other chairs at the other side of the table. The floor was covered with light-coloured stone, and the walls were white. The table was empty, the walls were empty. There were no windows. 

I was absent-mindedly chewing on a wooden runecarving stylus that I found in my pocket when the door finally opened. In walked Locke, his expression grave and tired, followed closely by Eleanor Ashmore, the Head of the Council and a young scribe, holding a quill and a stack of papers in his hands. I had never seen the fourth man before: he was tall and angular, imposing, dressed in robes adorned with arcane symbols. His face was weathered, eyes sharp and scrutinising. He didn't give a very friendly impression, and as he looked over me with his penetrating eyes, I quickly removed the end of the stylus from my mouth and slipped it back into my pocket. 

“He is anxious,” he said in a grim tone as they sat down. His voice was deep and raspy. 

“Of course he is,” said Ashmore. She seemed calm and collected. “Garrick, this is William Alden, apprentice of Councillor Locke.” Then she turned to me, “William, let me introduce Councillor Garrick Rowland, in charge of arcane defence.”

“Good morning, sir,” I murmured, my eyes avoiding Locke as I used the honorific. I’m in a fucking interrogation room, after all. 

“We are gathered here today to understand the events surrounding the recent Dusk appearances,” said Ashmore, taking on a formal and commanding tone. The scribe diligently started to record her words. “This inquest is led by Eleanor Ashmore, myself, Head of the Magician’s Council. Present with us are Councillor Garrick Rowland, Councillor Ellis Locke, and William Alden, first-year apprentice under Councillor Locke's guidance.” She paused briefly. “William, this is not a trial, but rather an inquiry to gather information and ensure the safety of the Sanctum and its inhabitants,” she declared, her tone unwavering. “Please understand that we seek clarity, not judgement. Your cooperation is crucial in this matter.”

I glanced at Locke, who nodded shortly.

“Yes, madam,” I said. 

“Now, let us begin,” nodded Ashmore. “Councillor Rowland, please.”

After some searching, Rowland took a palm-sized dark green stone from his pocket. Its surface was smooth and shiny, and I could suddenly sense the strong magic emanating from it even from across the table. I wondered what kind of magic could be in Rowland’s clothes that could cover all this power. 

“Hold it,” he barked, handing me the stone. 

I raised my hand, but stopped before my fingers touched the dark, glowing surface. 

“What is it?”

“You are not the one asking questions,” snapped Rowland. 

“This is a Clarity Quartz,” said Locke already in an exasperated voice. He leaned forward, grabbed the stone from Rowland, and placed it in my hand. “It will glow brighter if you lie.”

The stone felt dense and cool against my palm, its surface smooth and alive with a faint hum of magic. It was much heavier than it should have been, and as I held it I had a strange feeling that however it might work, it also used my magic to do it. 

It will glow brighter if you lie. I could feel cold sweat on my nape, and I lowered my hand to the table to hide its trembling, palm up, holding the stone.

“The Council’s emergency meeting tried to unravel the reasons behind the Dusk’s appearance,” said Ashmore. “And one of the most striking connections between the two cases was your presence, William.”

“And Locke,” I murmured. “He was there too.”

“Hoy! This is how you speak with your superiors?” snapped Rowland so harshly the scribe next to him jumped and dropped his quill. There were glances exchanged between all the councillors as the boy climbed under the desk to retrieve his quill.

“Councillor Locke's involvement is noted,” Ashmore acknowledged, her voice maintaining its composed demeanour. "But we're here to understand your specific role and any potential connections, William.”

“I’m not connected to the Dusk in any way,” I declared, gesturing to the Clarity Quartz. “See? I’m telling the truth.”

“We can see that you are,” said Ashmore, now with a slightly irked edge in her tone, “but please let us continue. The Dusk creatures were thought to be eradicated more than a hundred years ago, yet now they appeared twice, in alarming proximity to the Sanctum. You and your master, Councillor Locke were present both times. It could be a coincidence, but you must understand that in a situation like this, questions arise. And the Council knows nothing about you or your past–”

“Based on what we know,” interjected Rowland, “you could even be a traitor who, by infiltrating our ranks, tries to unleash the world's greatest darkness on our necks.”

“ Infiltrating your ranks? I didn’t even want to become an apprentice!” I said, indignantly. 

Rowland’s brows furrowed deeply, his stern gaze fixed on me with unyielding intensity. “Your lack of desire does not excuse your insolence, young man,” he retorted sharply. “We are here to ensure the safety of the Sanctum. Show some respect.” Shaking his head, he turned to Locke. “This is what you have to deal with everyday?”

“Something like this,” Locke said flatly. 

“Let us continue,” said Ashmore. “William, did you ever practise any kind of dark or forbidden magic?”

“Dark or forbidden? Not really,” I said, my fingers twiddling nervously with the hem of my coat under the table. All eyes were fixed on me, waiting for me to continue. “How does this stone work? I suspect it couldn’t know the actual truth, right? So it just detects if I think that I am lying?”

Ashmore exchanged a brief glance with Locke, then turned back to me, her expression unreadable. “The Clarity Quartz measures the alignment of your intent with the responses of your feelings and the magic around you,” she explained. “It senses deception based on subconscious cues, not your conscious thoughts.”

Rowland leaned forward, his tone hard. “Do not attempt to manipulate it. It will know.”

“I was just curious,” I said, but my voice was much weaker than I intended.

“Answer the question,” barked Rowland.

“Sorry, what– what was the question?”

“Pay attention,” murmured Locke quietly.

“Did you ever practise any kind of dark or forbidden magic?” repeated Ashmore.

“I don’t know,” I said. “You know that I tried to use magic to steal that book, and– that was– well, that was probably not the first time.” I avoided Locke’s eyes. “So I know I used magic for the wrong reasons, but those were otherwise harmless spells. And I tried… shadow weaving a few times,” I heard Locke’s sudden intake of breath. “But that’s not really dark magic, is it? It’s not forbidden.”

“It is not,” allowed Ashmore. “Why did you use shadow weaving?”

“I wanted to be… alone.”

“Alone?” Ashmore asked. 

“You know, it’s like… a circumstance when you are on your own?”

Locke closed his eyes, Ashmore furrowed her brow, but it was Rowland who spoke first. “Stop wasting our time with these evasions, lad. Perhaps a dose of Veritas Elixir will help you find your honesty?”

I blinked at him, but he seemed totally serious. “All the truth serums are highly unpredictable,” I said slowly. 

“And painful,” added Locke, but he was looking not at me, but at Rowland.

“That might be not so bad after all,” murmured Rowland.

“He is an apprentice,” Locke said, his voice hardening. “Not a suspect. We will treat him with the presumption of innocence until proven otherwise.”

Now Rowland raised an eyebrow, but Locke kept staring at him, and in the end Rowland nodded. Locke nodded too. I was looking from one to the other, not sure how I felt. 

“Let us continue,” Ashmore said finally. She looked tired now. “William, answer my questions without side-talk or impudence. This is a gravely serious matter, and even if you have nothing to do with the appearance of the Dusk, your attitude does not fit the situation.”

“I’m sorry, madam,” I murmured, averting my eyes.

“So, you are saying that you never used any dark or forbidden spells, did you?”

“I didn’t.”

“Alright. Before becoming an apprentice, have you ever been part of any magical organisations or groups?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Have you ever had any encounters with dark magic or those who practise it?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Have you ever been approached by anyone with ill intentions or dubious offers?”

“No…” A faint flicker of the stone. All eyes darted to it. “I’m not lying!” I exclaimed. “I’m just thinking about what is exactly a dubious offer. Well, does it count as one when I was sent to the market and there was a merchant who tried to sell me pixie eggs for a strangely low price? He said they would grant wealth and luck, but they looked suspiciously like painted chicken eggs, so I did not buy them. I mean, I wouldn’t buy them anyway, I know it’s just a superstition.”

“I don’t think that counts,” said Ashmore dryly. 

“Then no,” I said firmly. “Never.”

“Right. Have you ever sought out knowledge about forbidden or dangerous magic?”

“No…” Locke raised an eyebrow and I sighed. “I mean, I read kind of a lot of books. There’s a few L– Councillor Locke would not agree on being good reads. But I never sought anything forbidden on purpose!”

“Alright. Have you ever been tempted to use magic for personal gain or revenge?”

“You know I stole books. But nothing–” Revenge . The stone glowed lightly, and I glared at it angrily. “But it’s nothing important!”

“Tell us,” said Ashmore simply.

“There were a few times when I used magic for things like getting away with a difficult task or avoiding a punishment, if this counts as personal gain. And there was a time when I felt like I was punished unfairly, and I used magic to get revenge. That’s all. I know it was a bit pitiful, but not dangerous or illegal.”

“So you got away with misusing magic quite often,” Locke said.

“I didn’t say it was often.”

Locke raised an eyebrow at me, and I looked away. 

“What do you know about the Dusk creatures?” Ashmore continued. 

I shrugged. “The basic things that are in every history book. How the Council created the Dusk and saved the day. Although the books didn't write much about how horrible these creatures really are.”

“You know nothing,” murmured Rowland. “These few stray creatures you've encountered are like a morning stroll compared to what the Dusk really is, during an actual attack.”

“I’m fine not knowing it,” I replied. 

“Do you have any theories about why they appeared when and where they did?” asked Ashmore, choosing to ignore my comments completely. 

“I have absolutely no idea,” I said. 

“Can you assure us, unequivocally, that you have no intentions of causing harm to the Sanctum or its inhabitants?”

“I can.”

“Have you ever felt an inexplicable urge to do something that goes against your better judgement, particularly in relation to your magic?”

“An inexplicable urge?” I repeated. 

“Like a subtle dark influence,” explained Locke. “Which might happen to you without you knowing about them.”

“No,” I shook my head. “I don't know of any such thing.”

“Good,” nodded Ashmore. “My last question, then. Have you ever experienced a loss of control over your magic?”

A flicker of the Clarity Quartz, before I even opened my mouth. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the narrowed gazes and the tense attention.

“Speak,” Ashmore prompted.

“Why is it glowing before I’ve even said anything?”

“In some cases it can react to intent,” said Ashmore with her head tilted to the right. “Or if you are holding back, or you are uncertain. It can detect that too.”

“That’s not really fair,” I said, “it glowing when I’m not even lying.”

“If you answered, we could decide what the Quartz’s reaction might mean,” interjected Locke sharply. 

“Everyone loses control as a child,” I shrugged. 

“Maybe,” said Ashmore. “What about you?”

“He,” I indicated in the direction of Locke with my head, “always says that I lack the necessary control and discipline for magic. But nothing dangerous happened.” Here.

“That’s true,” said Locke with a nod, but I was not sure which of my sentences he meant. 

“Alright,” nodded Ashmore with a deep sigh, then looked at Rowland and Locke. “Councillors, are there any questions you would like to ask?”

“I would like to know what happened on that square yesterday,” Rowland drawled while Locke shook his head, “when he got poisoned by that Dusk Knight.”

“I'm sure you know a thousand times more about the Dusk Knights and the poison in their weird black swords than I do,” I shrugged. 

When I looked up, Locke was staring at me, disbelieving. “Pull yourself together,” he said.

I made a face, but turned back to Rowland. “I was behind the protective barrier, when I saw a young girl in trouble. I ran to her to help, and while running back, the creature cut me with his sword on my hand.”

Rowland’s eyes narrowed sharply as he studied me. “I heard you were under direct orders to stay behind the barrier.”

“You heard right.” Well, that may have sounded more defiant than I intended.

“And yet you chose to disobey those orders.”

“I don’t see why this is relevant.” A hint of exasperation crept into my voice as I continued. “I thought we were here to make sure I didn't want to harm the Council, not to talk about how good I am at following orders… Anyway, it would be pretty lame if I wanted to set the Dusk upon you while killing myself with them, wouldn't it?” I caught Locke’s gaze. “So, well, I– I only acted to protect that child. I didn’t mean to disobey.”

Rowland's tone was sharp and disapproving. “And yet, your disobedience nearly cost you your life. This recklessness is dangerous.”

“He  acted bravely, though imprudently,” stated Locke, talking to Rowland but looking at me. “He understands the gravity of his actions.”

“Does he,” growled Rowland, giving me a questioning look.

“I do,” I said quickly, just to finally get over this conversation.

“Right” nodded Rowland, but otherwise he seemed completely unconvinced. “No further inquiries on my end,” he went on, his voice gruff. “But I must add that this boy's behaviour shows a troubling lack of respect for our standards and authority.” He glanced sideways at Locke. “I trust you will handle this with the seriousness it warrants, right?”

“Of course I will,” said Locke, and his tone was light but his eyes were fixed on me as he raised his hands to cross them slowly over his chest. 

“We’ve covered a significant amount of ground today,” Ashmore said, her voice steady. “With no further questions from the Council, this session is now concluded. The information we’ve gathered will be thoroughly examined. Thank you for your time, William. You are free to leave.”

“Was there a possible outcome in which I could not leave freely?” I asked as I stood, sliding the Clarity Quartz from my hand onto the table.

“Just go,” Locke waved me away. “Wait for me outside.”

 

 

 

The corridor was empty as I stepped outside. I leaned against the wall, the heel of my boot kicking absently at the bricks. I had a small urge to eavesdrop, but the desire to be anywhere else was much stronger, and I still could feel the unpleasant tingling on my palm where I held the Clarity Quartz. 

A few minutes later the door opened again, and Locke stepped outside. 

“Walk with me,” he said, motioning towards the end of the corridor. 

He led the way back, up a staircase, then along a wider corridor, and then through a passageway to a part of the Citadel from where I recognised the way to the Sanctum, but he still didn’t speak. I glanced at him from the corner of my eye, and his face looked tired and troubled.

“Did you sleep?” I asked quietly.

“No,” he said. “The Council sat until morning.”

“That… sucks,” I murmured. 

He didn’t react. We walked in silence until we arrived at the garden between the Citadel and the Sanctum.

“Are you mad at me?” I asked then. 

He looked at me with a snort. “ Why , pray tell, would I be mad at you?”

“I know I said some things that I– shouldn’t have.”

“No,” he said slowly, seemingly deep in thought. “I’m not saying I liked your attitude, but no, I’m not exactly mad. Disappointed, maybe. Worried? Certainly.”

“Worried about the Dusk?”

He opened the tall double doors to the Sanctum and urged me inside. “Everyone in their right mind should be worried about the Dusk,” he said. “But I meant that I’m worried about you.”

“Me?” The door slammed shut behind us. I didn't know you cared enough to worry about me. “I’m not summoning the Dusk or whatever the Council believes. I thought we just cleared that up!” 

“I meant–”

“You don’t have to worry about me.”

He gave me a stern look. “Would it be easier if I was mad at you?” He stopped in front of me, so close that I had to raise my head to look him in the face. “Do you perhaps feel that you would deserve my anger?”

“I–” I tore my eyes away from his dark gaze.

“Do you even realise how disrespectful you were in there?” he whispered. “You are lucky Councillor Ashmore let you get away with your attitude.”

“I was answering everything she wanted to know,” I mumbled.

“For me it seemed you were more interested in making smart remarks than actually cooperating,” Locke said. 

“I was just…”

“You were just?” I stayed silent. “You were just what ? Talking back to the highest ranking members of the Council? Making sarcastic comments? Showing a complete lack of respect for the rules and for the Council? For me?”

I bit my lip, and tried to avoid looking into his eyes.

“Answer me, William.”

I had to clear my throat. “Sorry.”

Locke stared at me for a long moment, his eyes narrowing as he assessed my response. I could see the frustration simmering just beneath the surface, his jaw tightening. He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly.

“Sorry?” he echoed, his voice calm but with a sharp edge. "You bring this up, and now all you have to say is 'sorry'?”

I didn’t answer, my gaze fixed on the floor.

“You don't get to shut down the conversation just because it's uncomfortable,” he stated. “You wanted to talk about it, so let's talk. But if all you’re going to give me is a half-hearted ‘sorry,’ then we’re not getting anywhere.” 

“Sor–” I gave a frustrated groan. “But then what should I say? Should I start to call you ‘sir’ in every sentence? Would that make you feel respected?”

Locke’s eyes narrowed, and he stepped closer, his hand coming to grip my shoulder. It wasn’t rough, but it wasn’t gentle either—just firm enough to keep me grounded. “Well, actually you should,” he said with a grunt. “But you know that’s not the point. I expect you to recognize when you’ve crossed a line, and to show that you understand why it matters.”

“I understand… sir,” I said slowly, the honorific rolling off my tongue with just the slightest hint of defiance.

Locke’s grip tightened slightly, his tone dangerously low. “If you think mocking the situation is going to get you anywhere, you’re sorely mistaken.”

“Mocking?” I repeated in a small voice, widening my eyes in faux innocence as I felt his fingers dig into my shoulder just enough to remind me of his presence. His dark gaze bore into mine, the tension between us palpable. “I’m just trying to do what you want, sir.”

“If you spent half as much time learning as you do running your mouth, you might actually be worth something.”

I winced, looking away. That hurt . 

“It must be exhausting,” I muttered, the bitterness creeping into my voice as I rolled my eyes, “being so perfect all the time, sir .”

His hand dropped, the feeling of his fingers gone from my shoulder. I missed it, for a moment. Then I saw his face, and I decided it would be better to be a bit further away from him. I took a step back. 

“Remember what I said about rolling your eyes at me one more time?” he asked, his voice dangerously light, making a chill run down my spine.

“No,” I said quickly, trying to sound innocent.

“Do not lie to me, please.”

“Yes,” I said then, reluctantly.. “I remember.”

“Then enlighten me, please.”

“You said that I– that I shouldn’t roll my eyes.”

“Or?” Locke prompted, raising an eyebrow.

“Or you're gonna lock me up in a cell.”

“Exactly,” Locke nodded, his voice cold. “See, you can be a good boy if you want. So what happens now?”

“Well– so I think you are– you are probably going to do some important work in your study, and I'm going maybe to the library or–”

“Do I look like someone who makes empty threats?” he interjected.

“Well…”

“Well?”

“I mean, you talk kind of a lot about discipline and respect and… consequences, but you have never actually…” I trailed off, unsure of how to finish. He looked at me calmly, his expression unreadable. I gulped. “Never really... punished me.”

“Hm,” said Locke. His gaze made a small, anxious knot deep in my stomach. “Follow me.”

 

 

Locke led me down several flights of stairs until the corridors around us grew dark, cold, and musty. He opened heavy doors and we passed through bars set deeply into the stone walls. Finally, he stopped in front of a narrow, dark wooden door reinforced with rusty iron straps.

“There should be a little light in there,” he said, his gaze steady and serious. “It might take a moment for your eyes to adjust.”

I nodded, slightly confused at his tone, definite but not unkind.

“You’ll stay here for an hour,” Locke continued. “After that, I shall ask you what you want to change about your behaviour. Be prepared with your answer.”

He made a few quick gestures, and I heard the distinct click of a lock disengaging. He swung the door open.

I peered inside and nearly laughed out of sheer nerves. “You’ve got to be kidding me. This isn’t– isn’t even a cell – it’s more like a glorified cupboard.”

Locke’s expression hardened, but he kept his voice calm. “It’s a place for reflection, not a luxury suite. If you’re going to be difficult, we can make this experience even less pleasant.”

I took another uneasy glance at the tiny space and then at Locke. “I’m sorry.”

“Good,” Locke said firmly. “Now, inside.”

The space looked high enough for me to stand, but just because I wasn’t particularly tall. It looked wide enough to sit, maybe even with my legs extended, but definitely too small to lie down. 

Locke didn’t move, his eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. The door to that miserable little space stood open, waiting, and the silence between us stretched thin. I stayed where I was. 

He waited. He didn’t even seem impatient. I felt the silence becoming unbearable, but he didn’t seem bothered by it at all. 

My gaze flicked from him to the cell and back again. I could feel my breath quicken. “You really think this is necessary?” I asked, gesturing toward the small, dark space. “I mean, there isn’t– there isn’t even enough room here to reflect on anything.”

He only gave me a cold stare.

“Alright, but when I write my memoir, this part’s going to make you look really bad.”

“You’re stalling.”

“I’m just saying I’ve maybe learned my lesson already, and we don’t need to–”

“Get. In.”

“And if I promise I’ll be on my best behaviour from now on?”

“That would be nice. Now, inside.”

I opened my mouth to argue but then our eyes met and I closed it just as quickly. Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to step forward. The cold, damp air clung to my skin, and the darkness was nearly absolute. I didn’t turn back as he closed the door. 

I was alone.

I could hear my own breathing in the silence, quick and uneven. 

I raised a hand and quickly conjured a small light sphere. 

Locke wasn’t just trying to scare me. He was showing me that he had the power to control me, to put me in situations where I had no choice but to comply. The realisation sent a chill down my spine, and I shivered, trying to block out the thoughts that kept spiralling in my mind.

I sat down on the cold ground, pulled my legs close to my chest and dropped my chin on my knees. 

Notes:

Thank you for being here!
I'm so grateful for every reaction, constructive criticism, suggestion or question, as well as for pointing out any mistakes or sentences that don't make sense (since English is not my first language) ^^

Chapter 11: Conversation

Summary:

Just a long conversation.
(the chapter itself is a shorter one, but there's nothing else here just conversation)
(it seems someone likes to write dialogue)

“You shouldn’t be able to conjure a lightning sphere here,” said Locke, standing in the tiny cell’s open door. 

It had probably been an hour since he left me here, though I couldn’t be sure. At least he said it is going to be an hour.

“I didn’t know,” I murmured, sitting on the cold floor with my cloak wrapped tightly around me, still shivering. I didn’t move.

“We are going to have a conversation,” he went on. “Come, please.”

I pushed myself up, my body heavy and stiff, still avoiding his gaze. As I stood, dizziness washed over me, and I nearly stumbled.

“Careful,” Locke said, catching my hand to steady me. His fingers were warm against my skin, a firm grip helping me regain my balance. I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the calm wash over me—then quickly yanked my hand away.

 

 

A few minutes later, I was sitting on the usual chair in his office. There was a blanket draped over my shoulders, and a mug of warm tea in my hand. It seemed like the most bizarre situation I had ever been in.

Locke settled behind his desk, his posture relaxed but his gaze steady. “How do you feel?” he asked, his voice calm but probing.

I stared at him, still processing the shift from the cold, dark cell to this oddly comforting office. “What?”

“How do you feel?” he repeated, his tone patient.

“I—are we talking about our feelings now? Why?”

“Have you experienced something like this before?” 

“Like someone trying to talk to me about my feelings? Well, I’m sure it happened–”

“No,” he cut me off, raising a hand to signal for me to stop. His face was still calm, his eyes were unwavering. “I meant the cell. But I suppose you know what I meant, don’t you?”

“Sorry,” I murmured, averting my eyes. I lifted the mug and sipped the tea just to do something. It was hot and sweet. It burned my tongue a little. “No.. It’s never happened before.”

Locke nodded, as if confirming something to himself. “So, since this is not an everyday experience for you, and since you look worn out, we’re going to sit here for a while until you calm down, and we are going to talk about what you’ve been through.”

I fidgeted with the mug, trying to steady my breathing. The silence stretched, and I could feel the weight of Locke’s gaze, not really pressing, but still present, expectant. 

“You know, I–” I began, my voice quieter this time. “I can imagine myself, fifty years from now, old– I mean I know that as a magician, I won’t actually be old in fifty years, but you know, I still imagine it that way...”

“It can be hard”, he nodded thoughtfully, “to fathom how long we can live.”

“Yeah,” I gave a short, nervous laugh. “So– yeah, I can imagine myself being old and calm and doing everything so slowly. Practising magic with the control and discipline it requires. Always being focused and wise and– you know, perfect.”

He tilted his head to the side, looking at me curiously. “This is what you want?”

“This is what I’m supposed to want, isn’t it?”

“Is it?”

I huffed in frustration. “You are the one talking about self-control and discipline all the time, aren’t you? Why can’t you just say now that yes, this is what I should want?”

Locke didn’t seem perturbed by my frustration. “I’m not denying that you need self-control and discipline. I’m asking if this is truly what you want, beyond what’s expected of you.”

“I’m not sure I can ,” I mumbled.

There was silence for a while, and when I glanced at him from the corner of my eye, he just stared at me with a thoughtful expression. 

“Are you mad at me?” he asked eventually.

“What?” I looked up, caught off guard by the question. “Why would I be?”

He gave me a gentle smile. “Locking you in that cell just because you rolled your eyes might seem a little harsh, doesn't it?”

“Well–” I shifted uncomfortably, the blanket slipping slightly with my movement. “Well, you– We both know you said this would happen.”

“And we both know that sometimes you roll your eyes as naturally as someone else would take a breath,” he said. “I know it wasn't deliberate disobedience.”

I glanced down at the mug in my hands. “I know I’m sometimes… pushing the limits.”

“That's for sure,” he nodded solemnly. “And this is also a chance for you to reflect on why these boundaries are important and how they contribute to your growth.”

“I don’t belong here,” I said quietly, not looking up.

“Well, you are my apprentice now, whether you like it or not,” Locke said, his voice carrying an undertone of firmness. “You are magically bonded to the Sanctum and to me, so I’m going to make you go through these years, whether you like it or not. But make no mistake—you are exactly where you need to be.”

“I’m not cut out for this,” I continued, still talking to the floor. “I can imagine myself treating you and the other Councillors with the utmost respect, but then when we are in the situation, it– I just– I don’t know.”

“You just behave like a brat who thinks ‘respect’ is a term you use only when you’re trying to get out of trouble?”

I looked up, my face flushing with a mix of embarrassment and frustration. “That’s not fair.”

“I can't say you don’t have to show respect. I can’t say that you don’t need to study persistently and hard. I can’t say that you don’t need to learn control and discipline—because you do need them to ever be able to control your magic properly. But is there anything else that would make it easier for you to adjust?”

“You can’t say I don’t need to be a flawless apprentice,” I murmured bitterly.

Locke’s tone remained calm. “What I expect is effort and a willingness to learn, not perfection.”

“Oh, great,” I spat, almost rolling my eyes. I caught myself in the middle of the motion, my gaze darting to Locke. “I’m sorry,” I added quickly.

Locke nodded, acknowledging the apology with a slight smile. “Apology accepted. But you still didn’t answer my question. What would make it easier for you to be an apprentice?”

“Well, you know, it would be nice if I didn’t feel like a constant failure all the time.”

“Hm. What exactly is it that you’re struggling with?”

“What exactly? Are you serious? You know, like… everything ?” I made a disbelieving gesture with my free hand.

Locke studied me for a moment, then his expression softened. “It sounds like you feel your efforts are going unnoticed. I suppose I don’t always acknowledge your successes.”

I laughed, but there was no real humour in it. “I don’t have successes.”

“I’ve been so focused on pushing you to improve that I haven’t taken the time to praise you,” he went on, ignoring my comment. “Maybe that’s part of what’s making you feel like you’re failing.”

I stared at him. “So now you’re saying I need praise to feel better about myself?”

“Everyone needs to feel that their work is valued,” nodded Locke in an annoyingly gentle tone.

“I don’t need your fucking pity-praise,” I snapped, standing up. The remaining tea from the mug in my hand splashed straight onto Locke's fancy carpet.

Locke's eyes narrowed, and I stared back at him as his expression hardened. Without taking his eyes off me, he cast a spell that cleaned up the spilled tea with a quick swirl of his hand. “Sit down.”

I froze, caught off guard by the sudden authority in his voice. Why the hell am I doing this?

Locke’s voice was firm and commanding. “Sit.”

I sank back into the chair, my face burning with a mix of anger and embarrassment. I crossed my arms tightly, avoiding eye contact. The blanket slid down from my shoulders to the back of the chair.

Locke's demeanour softened slightly, though his authority remained. “You are just coming out of a severe punishment,” he noted with a slightly frustrated edge in his voice. “Do you think that lashing out like this will help you?”

“No,” I shrugged.

“You’re right,” he nodded. “It won’t. Throwing a tantrum doesn’t solve anything. It only makes the situation worse and adds to your frustrations.”

“Alright,” I said, keeping my eyes averted. I heard him sigh. 

“So if I say you're going to sit there and listen to me praise you, you're going to sit there and listen politely, right?”

“Yes,” I muttered.

Locke took a deep breath, his tone shifting to something more measured and encouraging. “Good. Let’s start with the potion you brewed last week. It was a perfect elixir for memory enhancement. Not only did you follow the steps correctly, but you also managed to adjust the formula to suit your limited ingredients. That’s not something most apprentices achieve so early on.”

I shifted slightly in the chair, but didn’t respond.

“And then there was the enchantment you performed on the training blades,” Locke continued. “You learned how to imbue them with a defensive charm quickly and accurately. Your understanding of the incantations was impressive.”

I still didn’t make eye contact, feeling some light blush creeping up my cheeks.

“And let’s not forget your work with healing magic,” Locke added. “You’ve shown a natural aptitude for it, especially in your quick grasp of the techniques to mend minor injuries. That’s a valuable skill.”

I bit my lip, trying not to show any reaction.

“I'm sorry that I made you feel unsuccessful as I've always only highlighted your faults,” he said softly.

“Thank you… sir,” I said, hoping that the honorific this time would not come across as a mockery, but rather an apology of sorts.

He gave a nod, smiling. “Now, I can see you are tired. Anything else you want to talk about right now?”

“You know I’m not a big fan of these conversations,” I mumbled. 

“Then I would ask you to go to your room and spend today resting. We both need it.”

“But it’s the middle of the day.”

“You can read something light if you want,” he allowed with a small wave of his hand. “But if I tell you to go to your room and rest, then–”

“I know, I know, I’m going to rest.”

“That’s right.”

I stood up, placing the mug on the edge of his desk. 

“I will wait for you at the practice field tomorrow morning at the usual time,” he added. 

I nodded, on my way to the door, but then I stopped for a moment.

“Can I ask you something else?” I turned back. 

“Of course,” he nodded.

“Councillor Rowland… I’ve never seen him before.”

“Ah,” he nodded with a small smile. “Councilor Rowland is a military man. In fact, he is one of the greatest generals the Council has ever had.”

“But there has been peace for a long time.”

“Yes, and he has a big role in that. But you're right—that's why you haven't seen him around here. In peacetime, the task of the Councillor responsible for defence is quite different than it is during war.”

“I see… but you seemed to know each other quite well.”

“Yes, we do,” he said. There was a strange reminiscent note in his voice. “He was my old master, back when I was an apprentice.”

“Oh,” I said. Then I went on, “ Ooooooh .”

Locke just raised an eyebrow. 

“Well, that explains a lot ,” I grinned. 

He frowned, and he seemed so utterly clueless that I was hardly able to keep a straight face. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

”That’s… actually pretty hilarious,” I said, covering my grin with a hand.

Locke raised an eyebrow, his tone growing stern. “Hilarious?”

“Yeah,” I said, trying to stifle my laughter. “It’s just, well, knowing that Rowland was your master makes it pretty clear where you get your no-nonsense attitude from.”

“He was… formidable,” he said slowly. “Strict but fair. Incredibly skilled–”

“I don't know who he reminds me of,” I chimed in.

“I can ask him to give you a few lessons,” he said, giving me a reproving look. “I’m sure he would happily oblige.”

My eyes widened. “What?”

Locke’s smile turned slightly mischievous. “I don’t think it’s up to you to decide, is it? Councillor Rowland's main field is arcane defence, but of course he is also well-versed in martial arts and many other branches of magic. I could easily arrange for him to give you some lessons on military etiquette or any other subject you might find…challenging.”

“But–”

“I don’t think that his patience for backtalk is practically existent.”

“Okay, but you are not serious–”

Locke leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a more menacing tone. “Dead serious.”

“No, you are not. You are just trying to scare me.”

Locke chuckled softly, his tone returning to a more light-hearted note. “It seems to be working. But maybe next time, think twice before teasing me about my ‘no-nonsense attitude’. I would really like to see how he would react to your behaviour. I think that would be a good lesson for everyone.”

“Okay,” I said quickly. “I’m sorry. I will be good.”

“I thought so,” he flashed a distinctly ominous grin at me. “You are dismissed.”

My hand was already on the doorknob when I stopped again.

I took a deep breath and turned back to face Locke, my eyes briefly meeting his before darting away.

“Um–” I said.

“Yes?” Locke looked up from the papers he had started to examine, his eyebrows raised in mild surprise. 

“I haven’t really said thank you,” I said, fidgeting with the hem of my cloak. “You know, for saving my life. Yesterday. With the Aurora Device.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” he said, his expression softening.

“I know, just– well, let's just say the way it happened, I didn't enjoy it that much– but still, I’m– grateful.”

Locke set the papers aside, his full attention on me again. “The Aurora Device is not an enjoyable experience,” he said, his tone gentle yet firm. “But it was necessary.”

I nodded. “I know. I… appreciate it.”

Locke studied me for a moment. “And I appreciate you saying that,” he said quietly, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “But let’s make sure we don’t find ourselves in a situation where it is necessary again.”

I hesitated, then said, “Well, you looked like you were maybe enjoying it.”

Locke’s expression remained neutral, though there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Let’s just say it was a fine teaching moment.”

“A teaching moment where I nearly died?”

“A teaching moment where you learned the consequences of recklessness,” he countered, his tone even. 

“But I wasn’t–”

“You were reckless,” Locke cut in, his voice firm. “I will not open another discussion about this.”

I swallowed hard. “Sorry.”

Locke’s gaze softened, but only slightly. “And anyway, if I wanted to enjoy myself, there are far more entertaining ways to watch you suffer. But when you make choices that put your life in danger, my priority is making sure you understand what’s at stake.”

“Entertaining ways?” I echoed, feeling a bit bewildered.

Locke sighed, a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Go, get some rest.”

Chapter 12: Library

Summary:

Strange things are happening in the library.

While the Sanctum's everyday life returned to normal quickly, there were signs that something was not quite right. The Council's Defence Committee continued to investigate the Dusk's appearance, but most Councillors returned to their regular duties. The Committee's meetings were conducted in secret, as Locke reminded me every time I asked him about them, and when I said “But we were there”, he only answered that “Knowing too much can be dangerous”. I was sure he would be informed of developments, if there were any, but he just kept telling me to concentrate on my studies.  

Locke put together a new schedule for me, which, to my surprise, left me with much more free time than before. I would have been happy if we had abandoned the early morning training sessions, but for some reason he was still terribly attached to them. Still, I finally managed to catch up on the reading he assigned. I learned how to trim the Rambler Poisonberry shoots without causing the plant to explode, and I also mastered a complicated invisibility spell, but Locke was pretty freaked out when I somehow made the entire study chamber invisible – which hasn't reappeared since then, even though the magic should have worn off in a few hours.

As the mornings grew colder and the sun rose later and later, Locke’s dedication to early morning training remained unwavering. We had already spent countless hours on balancing and strengthening poses, but now he introduced what he called “concentration exercises.” They weren’t much different from the previous routines, except somehow, he managed to make them even more uncomfortable. Locke insisted these exercises would sharpen my ability to sense magic and fortify my control over it, but what I mostly sensed was the persistent ache in my muscles. I mentioned this to him one morning, but he just gave me a long lecture on how I’m supposed to concentrate “beyond the discomfort,” and that the “path to mastery is rarely comfortable,” and then my brain turned off and I let his words melt into a pleasant background noise.

 

I kept having strange dreams. One night, I woke up from a terribly depressing dream in which I wandered through a huge library buried underground. The dream seemed so real that, even though it was the middle of the night, I decided to go to the library and look for a spell that could help distinguish dreams from waking reality.

The long and silent corridors of the Sanctum seemed even more eerie at that hour. I pulled my cloak tighter as I hurried along the narrow carpet of the hallway and down a softly creaking flight of stairs. A few dim lanterns burned at the corners, but in the narrow passageways, I almost had to grope in the dark. The large wooden door of the library opened with a small creak, and I slipped through the gap, pulling the door shut quietly behind me.

Inside, the air was cold and heavy with the smell of books, parchment, dust and ancient secrets. I sent up a few light spheres, but the top of the shelves in the main hall, reaching up to the vaulted ceiling, still disappeared into the shadows above. For a moment I just stood there, listening to the soft noises of the library—the quiet rustling of paper, the smallest creaking of wood, the infinite hum of magic, deep inside the walls and the books themself. An icy breeze ruffled my hair, making me shiver. It felt like I was trespassing in a place not meant to be disturbed at this hour.

The rows of bookshelves stretched into the distance, winding through the massive space like a labyrinth, sprawling across multiple floors. Some aisles were narrow and cramped, while others opened into wide galleries. It was overwhelming to think about just how much was stored here – spells, enchantments, runes and sigils, all kinds of magic ever used, and histories, theories, and secrets collected over centuries, maybe even longer… It was almost the best library I’ve ever seen.

My footsteps were muffled on the thick carpet as I made my way among the shelves, feeling the usual mix of tranquillity and excitement and the pang of something deep and strongly suppressed that I always felt in libraries. 

I shook off the uncanny feeling and moved on, my eyes scanning the shelves for anything that might point me in the right direction. Dream magic, or spells related to the mind? I passed rows of ancient tomes, their titles faded with age, occasionally brushing my fingers against the leather covers. I went up a tiny, spiral staircase made of wrought iron, to a small room where old, wooden tables stood among the books, and the inscriptions on the shelves showed that these books were about craftsmanship. I looked at a few titles just out of curiosity, but then walked on, through a really narrow corridor, where the ceiling-high shelves were filled with meticulously organised scrolls and manuscripts, each one wrapped in protective cloth. Then I entered a huge space with enormous windows on the walls, now pitch dark, and on the black wood of the shelves there were intricate carvings of thousands of magical plants. 

I saw it there for the first time. It happened silently, I just startled at a movement I saw out of the corner of my eye. A particularly thick book floated peacefully past me in the air, ducked behind a shelf, and then disappeared.

For a moment I stared after it, then shrugged. 

I moved carefully through the maze of books, scanning the inscriptions on the shelves for any sign of the right department. I checked a catalogue, but it was in the Healing Potions Section, and covered only the books related to the topic, and I was sure I didn't want to start making potions whenever I wanted to make sure I was awake.

I ventured to places where I’ve never been before, and found books about illusions, death, dimensional magic, the history of hexing, three languages and a country that I haven’t even heard of and memory enhancement spells. There was a surprisingly large section about biscuit recipes – I checked, and they were really nothing magical, just an unusually large collection of different kinds of biscuit recipes. 

I was entering a large, circular room when two things happened. Firstly, I realised that all the sectors related to sigils are also totally new to me, and I decided that Locke could never possibly know how much I neglected those branches of my studies which don’t interest me at all. Secondly, a really heavy-looking volume flew past me, almost hitting me in the face. 

Of course, strange things happened in the library, like any place where so much magic was present: sometimes you could hear the books whispering to each other, or the temperature suddenly changed when you opened a book, or there were books that had so much magic embedded in them over the years that the ink almost came to life in them.

But it was important that they did not move. There were a few shelves that did move, depending on the time of day or things like the phases of the moon, but otherwise, the books never moved from their places just like that. Councillor Aman and the librarians had endless work cataloguing and arranging the volumes, as he reminded me every time we ran into each other in the library. He had a way of summing up the task of organising the library that made it sound like a noble quest rather than the maddening chore it probably was, but every time he stopped me in the library to give a lesson on the rules, I always just listened respectfully and nodded obediently. It was worth having a good relationship with him: Aman knew everything about magical lore, from the most obscure spells to the history behind them—it was like he carried the entire library in his head. Also, when he finished droning on the rules, he was kind of nice. Also , there was the story of the The Arcane Glossary, a thousand-page encyclopaedia of magical terms; and the story said that an apprentice some time ago accidentally spilled a cup of tea on its pages, and though an easy spell could have fixed it in an instant, Aman made the unlucky fellow copy the entire text, letter by letter, into a new book. 

I followed the book curiously, along corridors, up and down stairs, through a hidden passage that I didn't even know existed, until we arrived in one of the most far-away corners of the library, in a spacious hall where the shelves were close to each other and almost everything was thickly covered with dust. There, the book landed quietly on a shelf. A small cloud of dust rose. Then nothing else happened.

Still, I had a strange feeling that nothing was quite alright.

I stepped closer and took a look at the books. They were all huge, probably the heaviest volumes in the Sanctum’s library. Some were tall, longer than my entire arm, others were average or even relatively smaller. But they were all terribly wide. I lifted one off the shelf and it was so heavy that I had to prop it up on a nearby empty shelf as I opened it. The pages were not numbered, but I was sure it had to be thousands of pages long.

Chronicles of the First Mages. Principles of Magical Transmutation. Glyph of Protection. The Definitive Guide to Magically Enhanced Knitting Patterns. (What?) The Book of Misunderstood Magical Symbols.

How could all these books be in the same section?

Then another book arrived, looking as thick as the others, and this time I tried to concentrate, tried to reach out carefully with my magic to see what’s happening–

Oh no. 

The book drifted to the shelf, and put itself down with another cloud of dust. I waved it away, coughing. I stepped to the edge of the row of shelves and, not wanting to see what I was about to see, I looked at the other rows behind it. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, packed with the library's thickest volumes.

Oh no. 

No no no no no. 

There was another book arriving. 

“Stop it,” I hissed, but the magic was, of course, not listening to mere words, and this book landed on the shelf, too. Now I could almost see it, the magic that carried these books here, leaving quickly for another one – my magic, damn it , rearranging all the books in this fucking huge library in order of page number . Backward. 

A ran to the shelves. Touched the books, patted the empty places, raked my fingers through my hair in desperation. 

I took a deep breath, trying to centre my thoughts. Another book arrived, and I fixed my senses on the magic carrying it, feeling the familiar energy of the spells as it moved through the library’s much older and more complex enchantments. I focused on the core of the spells, trying to envision my original spellweaving in the middle, and raised my hands, slightly trembling, as I weaved a few new spells into the air, telling the magic to leave, to go back. It left, and I waited, my breathing shallow – until it arrived again with yet another huge book. 

“Back to my room,” I said to it angrily. “Not back for another damned book!”

I cast a quick dispel charm, but the magic just slipped away, going after other books to be rearranged. I run after it, swearing, throwing cease enchantments into its direction. I tried counter-spells, I weaved a containment barrier, I tried to use a magical lock or a reversal spell, but nothing happened. I tried to ask nicely . I even drew some lashed-together sigils into the air, but it only caused some books to jump off from a nearby shelf, and I hit my knee on the hard stone of the floor as I tried to catch them.

At least it wasn’t working really quickly, but still, there was already a huge hall filled with books out of order. 

Resignedly, I sighed, and went to look for a clock. It was getting late, or, more likely, early. Soon people would be getting up, Locke would be waiting for me in the training ground, apprentices and librarians would be coming here and then I–

Then I will be the protagonist of anecdotes and cautionary tales, which long generations of apprentices will tell each other, about a foolish apprentice who unleashed a runaway cleaning spell on the library, and ended up, probably, flayed alive by Councillor Aman or something like that. His tortured spirit still roams among the shelves of the library.

…Unless they don't know it was me.

It’s not so complicated to trace a spell back to its caster, but I tried to put this out of my head, trusting that if I didn't think about it, then maybe it wouldn’t be true. I was not here. I was in my bed, sleeping. In the morning I would be just as surprised as everyone else. 

I hurried through the halls and passages and stairs of the library, then quickly out of the large double doors, then along the corridors, heading to my room–

Until a sharp voice called after me. I was at the end of a wide corridor, just about to turn a corner. I stopped and squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, reluctant to turn back. 

“Good morning,” said Locke. 

“It’s more like a good nighttime,” I said, facing him with a deep breath. He was leisurely walking towards me, wearing his training clothes. “Or maybe a good dawn. But definitely not morning yet.”

“Help me figure out what's going on, please,” he said, coming to stand before me, his hands folded over his chest. “On the one hand, the possibility that you are here exceptionally on time and we could start our training without delay makes me quite happy. On the other hand, it worries me why you are rushing in the other direction.”

It seemed impossible. There weren't many people living in the Sanctum, but how could I run right into Locke in the otherwise almost always deserted corridors? It's either the worst bad luck in the world or I'm cursed.

“It’s a nice morning,” I said in a strangely high voice.

Whaaaaaat?

Locke just raised an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”

“I forgot something in my room,” I blurted out. “Just a moment, please, and then I will be at the training ground in time.”

“What do you need for the training that is in your room?”

“Em– It’s just–”

Oh fuck. 

“Good,” said Locke with a maddening smirk. “Then let’s go to the grounds.”

I followed him, defeated. The most annoying thing was that he must have clearly seen that I was hiding something and he let me suffer, confident that eventually I would be the one to come out badly anyway.

The worst part was that I felt the same way.

Just stay calm. Play it cool. You were never in the library. 

Locke walked ahead of me, his posture as upright and composed as always. I trailed behind, trying to figure out how to undo what I’d done without him or anyone else finding out. A small part of me was still hoping it would all just…fix itself. Like the library’s ancient magic would get fed up with my spell and squash it on its own. 

I knew I wouldn't be able to concentrate on training. Locke would criticise me, to which I will say things that I don't mean anyway, he will start preaching about discipline and control and how much I lack them, and meanwhile in the library more and more books would getting misplaced, and if Aman would not going to kill me, then Locke will. 

“Um,” I said, as we were nearing the stairs leading down. “Councillor Locke?”

He stopped, and I could see his instant smirk on his face. Maybe this was the first time I addressed him like that. 

“Yes?”

I took a deep breath. “Uh, so, there’s this– thing.” Then I went silent. 

“Thing,” he repeated.

“Yeah. In the library. I mean, it was in my room, but then– I don’t know, it's just, it’s causing– well, it’s a problem.”

“A problem,” he nodded. 

“Yes? Kind of. At least it’s doing… things… and I don’t know how to stop it.”

“What exactly is this thing we are talking about and what kind of things is it doing?”

I looked up at his face, and instantly regretted bringing this whole topic up. 

“You know– nevermind,” I said quickly. “Let’s go training, I–”

“No,” he said.

“I can’t wait for you to beat me up with your sword,” I went on cheerfully, and tried to step around him. He grabbed my upper arm and yanked me back. 

“To the library,” he hissed. “Go.”

I winced at the sheer intensity of his voice, but then nodded, reluctantly, trying to keep my expression neutral. The corridors seemed to stretch endlessly as I led the way back to the library.

Luckily, it still seemed to be empty. The silence of the library was deafening as Locke followed me up to that far away hall. At first it didn't seem like anything was wrong, but then I stopped by the shelves crammed with thick volumes. Locke's face was unreadable, maybe just a little irritated ( I guess that's because he had to put up with me again ), but then I saw his expression clearly change as he realised what he was looking at. Just right then another book arrived, drifting through the air quietly. Locke’s eyes widened, then he raised a hand and, touching his forefinger and thumb together, he drew a short, straight line in the air in a quick, strong motion.

I could feel everything stiffen around us, then the library went completely still for a moment. The book, that was just about to reach the shelf, stopped in mid-air, then with a loud thud fell to the ground. The magic was gone. 

The silence that followed was deafening. The books, the air itself, seemed to hold their breath, as if waiting for the next move. My heart pounded in the stillness, the sudden quiet amplifying my fear of what Locke might say next.

My jaw literally fell.

“How did you do that?” I asked, incredulous. 

“It was a simple still sigil. Now–”

“Could you teach me that?”

He cocked his head to the side with a wondering face, but for a moment there was a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You could easily do this, you know,” he said. “I mean, if you spent more time working on your control, than working on annoying me. But we can talk about practising it—once you have told me what exactly happened here.” And he turned to face me, with his arm crossed over his chest and with an expectant expression on his face. 

“Um,” I said. 

“Sometimes, mostly when you should be quiet, you can't even shut your mouth,” Locke remarked. “But then at times like this, when you should be speaking, all I get is humming and half-sentences.”

“I– uh, sorry.”

“What exactly happened here, William?”

“It’s… well, if we look at it that way, it's actually somewhat… your fault,” I said with a half shrug. 

His eyebrows raised. “Go on.”

I took a few steps away to pick up the fallen book from the ground. Compared to the others, it looked quite narrow, but only because it was written on hair-thin, almost transparent paper.  I flipped through it absently, just to occupy my hands with something. It was a travelogue from some explorer who travelled deep into the Baradla Caves to search for some mushrooms that only grow there.

Locke cleared his throat. My head snapped up, and I slammed the book shut. 

“So, I– Remember how you always said that my chamber here in the Sanctum should not be so messy?” I asked. 

“I do,” Locke slowly nodded, the fingers of one of his hands resting on his chin. “But lately you've been keeping it pretty tidy.”

“Yeah, well, that’s– that’s kind of the problem.”

His eyes narrowed a bit, looking at shelves full of the misplaced books, then back at me. “Be specific.”

“I used a spell,” I said slowly. “For cleaning.”

“This should hardly be a big problem,” he replied, his voice even. His eyes remained fixed on me, waiting for the rest of the story, clearly suspicious. 

“Yeah,” I nodded quickly. “ Although , it wasn’t just a– not just a regular cleaning spell. It’s more like... a bunch of magic that... cleans on its own.”

Locke stared at me. “A bunch of magic that cleans on its own?” he repeated. I liked the calmness in his voice less and less. 

“Yeah.”

“Explain, please.”

I winced, turning my eyes away. “It was supposed to clean my room. I don’t know when and why it left.”

“Alright, that’s a good question, but I would also be interested in the part about this bunch of magic that cleans on its own?”

“It’s just a few spells weaved together,” I shrugged. “So it won’t fade away, like a regular spell, so I don’t have to deal with it again and again. It was supposed to just do simple things, you know, put away clothes, pick things up off the floor, sweep up, stuff like that.”

“No, this is not how magic works,” he shook his head. “You can’t just create some ‘bunch of magic’ to notice the socks lying on the floor and constantly clean up for you. It almost sounds like something sentient .”

“Not sentient,” I said quickly. “More like... it just keeps cleaning,” I shrugged.

“This is not how magic works,” he repeated.

“I didn’t mean it to get out of hand,” I said quietly.

“I thought so,” he grumbled. “Alright, William, we will continue this conversation, but first we need to talk with Councillor Aman. Let’s–”

“He’s gonna kill me!”

He let out a frustrated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“He’s not going to kill you.”

“A few days ago, when we met here at the entrance, he wouldn't let me in until I had listened to the library's thousand rules for the twentieth time already!”

“That’s because you are young,” he said, and I stared at him, shocked, when he even chuckled a bit. “That's why you've only heard them twenty times. You'll hear them two thousand times when you're older. A couple of weeks ago I heard him list the rules to Councillor Ashmore.”

I made a disbelieving face. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Okay, but still, everybody already thinks that I’m untrustworthy around books, or that I’m clumsy at magic and I shouldn’t even be an apprentice–”

“Oh, you stole a few books and people think you’re untrustworthy? Shocking.”

I blinked at him. “I– I mean–”

“What?” There was definitely a smirk on his face. “Not used to being on the receiving end of a sarcastic remark? Now you know how it feels.”

“You are mocking me!” I said, still in disbelief.

“Alright, let’s go,” he said, turning on his heel. “Better to get over it sooner, right?”

I trailed after him, still flustered. “You could be called Mocke. You know, with an ‘e’ and everything.

“Aren’t you in enough trouble already?” he called, not turning back. “Come.” 

 

Councillor Aman’s face was stern and unreadable as he listened to Locke. Locke was calm and collected, of course, as always. I stood next to him, tried to take steady breaths, and hid my hand behind my back (it’s a clever gesture when you want to appear respectful while successfully hiding your fidgeting at the same time). At least he didn’t made me to tell what happened. I tried to keep my expression neutral, and wished I was cool and courageous enough to stand, say, leaning against that little table, with a bored face, arms folded loosely, one boot crossed carelessly over the other… But then Aman’s eyes were on me, piercing , and I swallowed hard, trying to force the lump in my throat down. It didn’t work. My heart was beating so fast, I was sure they could hear it.

“Do you understand the gravity of your actions, apprentice?” he asked. 

His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it that made my stomach drop. I nodded quickly, trying to keep my voice steady as I responded. “Yes, Councillor Aman.”

I imagined all sorts of things he could say - am I expelled? Am I really going to get that flogging? Am I never allowed to cast a spell again? 

Aman just nodded. “Wait outside for a moment, please.”

For a second, I was too stunned to move. I’d prepared myself for a lecture, a punishment, something. But being dismissed so casually, as if my presence didn’t matter, was something I hadn’t anticipated. My face flushed with embarrassment, and I nodded quickly, mumbling a quiet “Yes, Councillor” before I turned to leave.

I could feel Locke’s eyes on me as I walked out, but I didn’t dare look back. The door closed behind me with a soft click, cutting me off from whatever serious conversation they were about to have. Something I wasn’t part of, apparently. I leaned against the wall, folded my arms loosely, crossed my ankles carelessly, and tried to put on my most bored face. Too bad no one saw. 

Locke emerged from the room alone. 

I quickly straightened up, feigning nonchalance. “So… is he going to kill me?” I asked, trying to keep my voice casual, but the knot of anxiety in my chest made it come out higher-pitched than I intended. Shit .

“No, he’s not going to kill you,” Locke said, and beckoned me to move down the corridor.

I let out a breath as I followed. “So what? Am I expelled?”

“Not that either,” Locke replied calmly.

“Did he ban me from the library?” I asked, my voice growing more uncertain.

“No,” Locke said again.

“Really?” I pressed, narrowing my eyes.

“He didn’t,” Locke’s voice grew more serious, “I do.”

“What?” I nearly choked on the word. “You can’t be serious!”

His expression didn’t change. “Very serious.”

“But I need the library for my studies!” I protested, feeling the panic rise again.

“You can visit,” Locke said, “but only if I’m there with you.”

My mouth hung open in disbelief. “Then what's the point?”

“It’s not because this incident happened in the library. I’m giving you a reason to pull yourself together,” Locke said, his tone firm but not unkind. “If you want the freedom to visit the library whenever you please, to study in peace, then you need to show that you’re responsible enough to be trusted with that privilege.”

“Great,” I murmured. “Well, I guess I’ll just hang out in the dining hall, then.”

“Councillor Aman also agreed not to disclose the details of what happened to the other librarians,” Locke said, his expression remaining neutral. “However, it’s going to be a long, tedious task to sort out all the books. I offered your assistance, but Councillor Aman prefers that no one else interferes with the restoration process.”

I sighed, glancing down at my boots. “So, I’m not going to end up as a tortured ghost haunting the library forever?”

“No, you probably won’t,” Locke said, his tone softening slightly. “Councillor Aman also suggested we consult someone who can help assess your magical abilities so we can understand them better. I think it’s a good idea.”

I looked up, curiosity piqued. “Who?”

“Tenebris. She’s an old magician with a rare talent for sensing and understanding magical powers. I’ll write her a note; I’m sure she’ll be glad to see us soon. But for now, we’re already running late for our morning training, aren’t we?

Locke, ever the picture of calm, strode ahead of me as if this was just another mundane day. I followed in silence. So, no tortured ghost for me—just a temporary escort to the library and a meeting with a mysterious old magician to assess my ‘uncontrollable’ powers. Great.

As we rounded the corner toward the training grounds, I let out a resigned sigh and rolled my eyes at Locke’s back.

Notes:

Thank you sooooo much for any comments <3

Chapter 13: Power

We bumped along the cobblestoned streets of the city in silence. Locke sat across from me, unnervingly still, his hands folded in his lap. Occasionally, he glanced out the window at the city passing by.

The carriage could have easily fit four people, yet we were still uncomfortably close. I pressed myself against the door, fearing that at one bigger bump our knees would knock together. I found myself wondering why the Council couldn’t afford a bigger carriage. Or wasn’t there some nice little spell that could make this space feel larger?

At first, we passed through bustling streets and crowded market squares, where vendors called out their wares and children darted between stalls. The buildings around us stood tall and close together, and many of the facades were so ornate I didn’t even have time to look at them all properly, even though the carriage was moving slowly. Many of them had the city’s characteristic, famous arched windows with stained glass that glinted in the sunlight, creating a burst of colours reflecting on the streets.  

In the background, I could see the Citadel rising above the rooftops. It stood grand and majestic, its spires reaching towards the sky, adorned with intricate carvings and banners that fluttered in the breeze, the white stone gleaming in the sunlight. They said its beauty could only be surpassed by the Royal Palace.

As we moved further from the centre, the buildings began to change. We passed the city gates, and the tall, narrow houses with steep, gabled roofs gave way to more spacious, well-kept homes. The noise faded, replaced by the rhythmic clatter of the carriage wheels and the pounding of the horses’ hooves. Flower boxes adorned window sills, and ivy climbed the walls of elegant townhouses. We passed through a wide boulevard, shaded by ancient trees, their branches forming a canopy overhead. 

Finally, we passed the outer walls too, and the big buildings gave way to open fields with neat farm houses scattered over the rolling hills. The carriage turned from the cobblestoned road to a narrow dirt path, and the sounds of the city were replaced by the peaceful chirping of birds. Stone fences bordered green pastures where sheep grazed, and I could smell the scent of fresh grass and a nearby orchard in the air.

I found myself sneaking glances at Locke. The sunlight from the window cast shadows on his sharp features, highlighting the lines of his nose and cheekbones, his focused expression. He wore the Councillors’ simple, yet elegant and impeccably tailored clothes, the fabric falling in clear lines without the hint of a wrinkle. I wondered how much magic was woven into those textiles to make them look like this. His shirt was crisp and white, his black coat long and faultless, the burgundy patch with the Torch of Enlightenment striking and vibrant. While there were no clearly visible signs of being a magician, no one could fail to recognise a Councillor, and Locke was just as elegant and authoritative as ever, even here, sitting in a small carriage, squinting from the sun shining into his eyes.

“Is it magic?” I asked, breaking the silence. “You know, making all your clothes so perfect?”

He seemed to be surprised for just a moment

“A basic clothing adjustment charm,” he said. “It's used on all the clothes laundered at the Sanctum. Including yours.”

I looked down at my own clothes, and my shirt was already wrinkled, the stitching on the sleeves of my jacket was unravelled, and my boots were always dirty, even though I cleaned them (sometimes).

“I don't think so,” I said.

“I don't know what you do with them,” Locke shrugged. “I suppose if you want to make your clothes really messy, you can get over the effects of the charm.”

“I’m not messy,” I said, and though I wanted to sound firm, I might have sounded a little bit sullen instead. 

“Hm,” he said. 

“If you would let me use magic to clean my room–” I began.

“I won't,” he cut in. 

“But it's been a week!” I protested.

“A week?” he scoffed. “A week is nothing, even when one is as young as you are.”

“You always talk as if you were so old.”

“Hm.”

“Shall I call you old man from now on?”

“You shall keep quiet.”

I rolled my eyes, slumping back in my seat. I saw his eyes narrowing, but otherwise he did not comment on the eyeroll. The carriage jolted slightly, and I glanced out the window. Tried to keep my hands in my lap, but it was hard to sit still. 

“It could have been done the way I suggested,” I said after a while. “The Runeveil Ward.”

“There were many ways it could have been done,” he replied, “but if possible, I’d avoid the ones that might blow us up or tear a hole in the fabric of the world.”

“That’s not even a thing ,” I muttered. “Tearing a hole in the fabric of the world.”

“There can be many unforeseen consequences if you perform a serious and risky spell without the proper safety charms. But I do take my responsibility of keeping you alive very seriously, so whether or not it might tear the fabric of the world, I won’t allow you to recklessly endanger your life. Not to mention the lives of others, the safety of the Sanctum, the whole the city around us, the peace of the kingdom–” 

“You are being an asshole. These are such exaggerations! The worst that could have happened was that the spell failed, and I would have had to admit you were right. Then I would have done it all over again, just as you said, with every ridiculous little safety charm included.”

“Hm,” he slowly turned his eyes at me. It wasn't terrifying at all . “I was aware of your tendency to be reckless and disrespectful, but I didn't realise you would so blatantly ignore safety just to be faster, and then have the nerve to insult me for trying to protect you.”

I could feel my cheeks flush as I looked away, unable to bear his gaze on me.

“You’re right,” I muttered, staring out at the trees. “I’ll definitely remember to use all the safety charms from now on.”

His voice remained cold, clearly unimpressed. “Good.”

“But tell me, which safety charm should I choose for tying my shoes? You know, in case I trip and cause the Sanctum to explode?”

In the long, heavy silence that followed I regretted instantly that I ever opened my mouth. I could feel his eyes on me, and when I finally glanced back at him, his gaze had shifted, sweeping over me with a cool, assessing look. I shifted uncomfortably. His face did not even flinch, his jaw tight, his eyes narrow, his brow slightly furrowed. Only in his eyes flickered something, dark and intense.

“What?” I mumbled, hating how my voice wavered, sounding much higher than I intended. I tried to sound indifferent but probably failed miserably.

“What exactly is it that you’re hoping to achieve with this attitude?”

“I’m…” I started, unsure what to say. It would be easier if you didn't stare at me with that face. “I’m not…”

“You’re not what?” he asked, leaning in just slightly. “Not foolish? Not reckless? Not in need of a reminder of who is in charge here?”

“No,” I mumbled, but it was barely audible.

“So tell me, what is your aim here?”

“I’m not… I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Let me list a few possibilities for you. Do you think if you push me hard enough, I’ll just give in and let you disregard all safety protocols? Is that what you’re after?”

“Well, that would be nice, wouldn't it?”

“ William . Are you simply challenging my authority? Trying to see if you can get away with it?”

“I’m not challenging you!” I shot back, trying to sound confident. 

“Then what is it? Just a way to release some frustration? A form of rebellion?”

“No…”

“Testing boundaries? Seeing how far you can push me before I snap?”

“I definitely don’t desire you to snap.”

“Are you searching for discipline?”

“ What ?” I felt my face flushing. “Why would you even say that ?”

“When you are pushing me like this, unable to shut your mouth, not even after my umpteenth warning, I can’t help but think that you’re trying to provoke me into a reaction.”

“Well, you’re the one obsessed with discipline and self-control all the time!” I shot back, trying to sound defiant.

“And…?” He pressed.

“And what?”

“I’m the one obsessed with discipline and self-control, and? You want me to prove that I can actually enforce it?” Locke's voice was steady. 

“No!” 

“Did you enjoy it when I locked you up?” He sounded like we were just chatting about the weather.

“Of course not!” I exclaimed.

A small smirk on his lips. “And what about when I set boundaries? When I make it clear what you can and cannot do?”

“What the hell–” I began, but Locke cut me off with a wave of his hand.

“When you push me like this, testing limits and challenging authority, do you ever find a certain... relief when I finally set those boundaries clearly? When I tell you exactly what to do and how to behave?”

“I– I mean, what?” I stammered, unable to meet his gaze.

“It’s a good thing, finding security in boundaries or feeling a sense of relief when someone takes charge.” 

“You’re just overanalysing.”

He was openly smirking now. “Sometimes the things we yearn for are often the ones we resist the most.”

“Sorry, not overanalysing – you are just being an asshole again.”

“Maybe. But remember this: disregard my instructions again, and you will wish the only consequence was an explosion, alright?” Locke’s voice was low and dangerous. “And think very carefully about your next words, please.”

Deep silence. I heard the clinking of the horses' hooves and the rattling of the wheels on the uneven dirt road. Outside, the leaves of the autumn trees rustled in the wind, and a raven cawed somewhere nearby. I wished for– I wished for many things at that moment, but the only one that seemed attainable was to be out there in the forest, not here inside this cramped carriage where our knees almost touched. My hand was already on the door handle, not caring that the carriage was moving, when he gripped my wrist hard and pulled my hand back. He didn't say anything, just fixed his gaze on me. I lowered my eyes.

“Alright,” I said, sitting on the edge of the seat, my muscles tense, my breathing shallow. 

“Good,” he said, and his voice was so much softer now. “We will arrive in about half an hour. In the meantime, if you have any questions or if you'd like to discuss a topic, I would be very happy to talk with you, as long as you can converse in a civilised manner. Otherwise, I don't want to hear a sound from you.”

I shifted, fidgeting with the hem of my coat. I looked at him, then looked out of the window, then back down at my boots. 

“That’s a bit harsh,” I said. “I mean, like– like I’m just some nuisance and you’d rather not even hear me.”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re not a nuisance to me. But when your words are meant to provoke instead of communicate, it becomes exhausting. If you’re going to push my patience, then yes, I prefer silence.”

“I–” I crossed my arms, leaning back on my seat. I let out a deep breath. “Okay.”

He looked at me with narrowed eyes for a long moment.

“Nice,” he nodded. His eyes looked weary, but there was also a small smile on his lips. “Be a good boy.”

I stared out of the window, face flushed. 

 

The narrow, bumpy road led us deep into a dense forest. with huge trees around us. Towering trees surrounded us, their leaves tinged with yellow and red, only a little sunlight filtering through.

Finally, we arrived at a small clearing. In the centre stood a crooked, ancient-looking house. Its walls were made of dark, weathered wood, and the roof was a patchwork of moss and broken shingles. Smoke curled from the chimney, drawing a strange, circular pattern in the air. The house seemed to sag slightly, as if it were sinking into the ground. Or as if something was pulling it down into the deep.

Locke was already out, standing by the carriage door and looking at me expectantly. I hesitated, taking in the scene. The front yard was overgrown with wild herbs and thorny plants that looked like they hadn’t been tended in years. Gnarled trees surrounded the clearing, their branches twisted into unnatural shapes, as if reaching out to grab anyone who ventured too close. I half expected to see a black cat slink out from the shadows. 

Fuck it, Tenebris is a witch.

Locke cleared his throat, and I winced, hopping out of the carriage quickly. We quietly made our way down the path towards the house.

Locke knocked on the door, and it creaked open almost immediately, as if expecting us. Standing in the doorway was a woman, tall and thin, her skin white like parchment. Her silver hair hung around her face, reaching till her jaw, and she wore a cloak of deep green, the edges frayed and stained from years of use. Her eyes were silver, too.

I don't know if she even looked at Locke. All I could sense was her eyes staring at me, dark silvery gleams, and she smiled – a slow, deliberate curve of her lips which made me shiver and want to turn around and run. 

“Well, well,” she said, her voice a low, raspy purr. “What have we here?”

“Thank you for seeing us, Tenebris,” said Locke. 

“Ah, it’s nothing,” she waved a hand dismissively, but her eyes were still on me . “When you bring me something this interesting, how could I refuse? Come in, come in.”

I glanced at Locke ( Do you know where you have brought us? ) but he was just nodding politely, with a small smile, and put his hand on my shoulder, guiding me through the door, completely unfazed by the eerie atmosphere. 

I stopped just after the threshold. Tenebris looked at me with her silver eyes, and stepped closer. The smell of damp earth, a hint of something metallic, and the faintest trace of decaying leaves hit me. 

“I could sense you,” she murmured, her eyes narrowing as she studied me. “From far, far away. Never felt anything like this.” 

She reached out slowly, and touched my temple – a gentle, yet uncomfortably cold sensation. “There is magic in your hair,” she continued, her voice almost a whisper, her fingers moving up, until she reached my hairline. She leaned closer, and I could feel her nose grazing my hair as she breathed in deeply.

I stepped back abruptly, bumping into Locke. Tenebris gave another slow smile. She was beautiful, but there were definitely too many teeth showing in that smile. 

“Let’s get on with it, shall we?” She asked, and finally she was looking at Locke. 

 

They had me lying on a cold, hard table in the centre of the room. It absolutely didn’t help me relax. The surface was uneven, covered in small scratches and stains which I did not want to think about. The table must have had an interesting, but undoubtedly gruesome history. 

We were in a small room, with high shelves lining the walls, filled with bottles and jars and herbs and plants and taxidermy moulds. Some of them looked like basic potion ingredients, but there was a twisted root shaped like a human hand, and there were pitchers full of things that looked like they were once alive, and there were things that looked like they were still alive, and there was something that looked like a shrunken human head. I didn't want to end up on that shelf. 

I wanted to appear calm, but every muscle in my body was tense. The cold from the table seemed to seep through my clothes and into my bones. My skin was tingling, restless with the unsettling feeling that something was crawling just beneath it. I forced myself to keep still.

Locke sat in a chair by the door, while Tenebris loomed over me, the shadows stretching over he face. Her hands hovered over my chest, long fingers twitching slightly. I could feel that she was touching the magic around us. 

“Shh,” she said, “Stay still,” though I was already lying as still as I could. But the next moment I could feel her fingers inside me (no matter that I saw them hovering over my coat), reaching deep into my chest and touching the waves of magic right there.  I jerked, half-rolling off the table, coughing and gagging.

Locke was immediately at my side, his hands firm on my shoulders, guiding me back to the table. His voice was sharp, edged with urgency. “What’s wrong?” He was looking at Tenebris. “Is something wrong with his magic?”

“No,” replied Tenebris, her hands already over my chest again. I was grasping for breath, but she didn’t seem to care. “No, no. His magic is strong. Exceptional. Delicious.”

“What–” I started. 

“Lie still, please,” she said quietly, and suddenly there was no trace of the hungry edge in his voice from a moment ago. “I know it feels strange, but it’s not dangerous. You have a strong magic, strong and raw. It can feel strange.”

“I’m not some strange specimen you can–”

Locke's fingers tightened on my shoulder. I hadn't even noticed his hand was still there. I looked at him and he nodded. I gritted my teeth, took a deep breath and then closed my eyes. 

This time, I could feel what Tenebris was doing more clearly. Her fingers moved slower, tracing the threads of magic inside me, as though she were untangling a delicate web. The sensation was intimate, unsettling, like someone was touching the outline of my heart, my lungs, my ribs. Every so often, Tenebris would hum softly, as though discovering something fascinating.

“Your magic is over everything,” she sighed as I winced at some sudden cold sensation. “Magic surrounds us, of course, you know.” I knew this, of course, but I opted to stay silent. “We use it as we make spells, enchantments, as we weave magic or perform rituals. The runes and sigils are built on the magic of the world.” Her voice was soft, almost reverent as she spoke, as though she was explaining something sacred. I could feel her fingers gently stirring the energy within me, as if she were playing with invisible threads just beneath my skin. “But all magical people have their own magic, too, that’s what makes us able to use magic at all. And yours overlaps everything.”

“What could be the reason for this?” asked Locke. I opened my eyes and saw his grim expression, glancing at me for a quick moment.

“I could dig deeper,” Tenebris replied, her silver eyes shifting to meet Locke’s. Her tone was serious and thoughtful. “But it can be painful.”

Locke looked down at me, his eyes softening a bit, but his jaw set as he nodded, determination clear in his voice. “We need to understand what we’re dealing with.”

“Are you sure?” I asked, panic rising in my voice despite all my desperate attempts to appear calm. 

His gaze remained firm. “Be strong,” and his fingers shifted on my shoulder, almost like a caress.

I wanted to give him an angry look, but the next moment I just groaned and squeezed my eyes shut. Tenebris was muttering something to herself, and this time, when her fingers moved over my chest, it felt like she was pulling things out of me. Tenebris’s voice was a low murmur, almost hypnotic. I gritted my teeth, trying to suppress the tremors in my arms and legs. I was shivering. Locke’s touch on my shoulder was steadying, but the firmness of his grip reminded me of how powerless I felt. I wanted to scream. 

Tenebris’s murmured words continued, a dark and rhythmic chant that seemed to sync with the throbbing pain in my chest. I couldn’t fathom how this was possible, how someone could delve so deeply into my magic with such precise control. My world narrowed to the throbbing agony. 

Also anger. There was some place left for some anger toward Locke for allowing this. 

It ended slowly. I wanted the pain to just disappear, but instead it slowly subsided as Tenebris' words slowed, becoming more deliberate and soothing. The relentless pulling and tugging gradually subsided, replaced by a gentler, almost tender touch. I could feel the painful sensation fading as she withdrew.

My body went limp on the table, the tension draining away, leaving me drenched in sweat. I was utterly exhausted. My breathing was ragged, each inhale and exhale shaky as I tried to regain my composure. My eyes fluttered open, and I saw Tenebris’s silver gaze, pensive and slightly regretful, though there was still a hint of quiet satisfaction too.

Locke’s fingers traced small circles on my shoulder. 

 

She made tea, and we sat around a table (a different table, this time in a small, cosy kitchen, where the shelves were lined only with pots and pans, and the things in the jars looked like they were flour and seeds, not the results of some bizarre experiments). The tea was both bitter and sweet, with a yellow flower floating on top. I held the mug tightly with both of my hands, trying to warm my cold fingers. 

“I’m sure he was born this way,” Tenebris said, sipping her tea.

“I could have told you that without all the torture,” I murmured, but Locke only needed a sharp look to shut me up. I rolled my eyes and grabbed a ginger biscuit from the plate in the centre of the table.

“There are many factors that can affect the power of a magician before birth,” he said to Tenebris. “Have you been able to determine anything?”

“Most people with unusual powers were born under some form of celestial influence,” Tenebris said thoughtfully. “Astrological alignments, rare planetary conjunctions, or significant lunar events. But there would be signs of that in his magic.”

“Maybe some ancient bloodline?” Locke suggested.

Tenebris shook her head slowly. “Possibly. Or a blessing…or a curse before birth. A sacrificial ritual. Exposure to raw magic in the womb. But none of those seem likely..”

“But what else?” mused Locke. “Maybe some rare magical condition?”

“I considered that,” Tenebris nodded. “But it doesn’t fit. His power is more raw, more chaotic, and stronger than what I have ever encountered. It defies the usual patterns and explanations. Ancient bloodlines, being a seventh child, forbidden spells—none of that alone would cause this. If there’s a ritual or sacrifice strong enough to explain it, I’ve never heard of it.”

I choked on the biscuit, and turned away from the table a bit, coughing.

“So, what does that mean for him?” asked Locke, and when I turned back his brow was furrowed in thought, his gaze shifting between Tenebris and me. 

Tenebris leaned back, her silver gaze piercing. “You need to approach this carefully. Raw, chaotic magic like this can be unpredictable. A power like this operates outside conventional magic frameworks. No wonder he can't control it; consider yourselves lucky he hasn't burned down Sanctum yet.”

The biscuit was still scratching my throat, and I had to cough so hard that tears were welling up in my eyes. I glared at Locke through the blur. “Is this what you wanted to hear? That I’m a danger to everyone around me?”

He didn’t even flinch. “We need to understand the full scope of your magic so we can find a way to manage it.”

“Until I burn down the Sanctum,” I said, forcing a cheerful grin.

He gave me an unimpressed look. “ It’s about being proactive. We can’t afford to ignore the risks. You have great power, and we will make sure you’re equipped to handle it.”

“And what a power,” added Tenebris with a sparkle in her silver eyes, and for a moment I wasn't sure that the craving on her face was for the ginger biscuit between her long fingers, on for my magic. 

“But then it’s not my fault,” I said, wondering, and also trying to shift the focus from my, apparently, tasty magic. I glanced at Locke. “You keep talking about control and self-discipline, but there you go, it's not even my fault.”

He met my gaze with a steady, unwavering look. “Understanding the cause doesn’t change the necessity of control.”

I rolled my eyes, and he sighed, placing his cup down on the saucer with a small clink. 

“Thank you for your help, Tenebris,” he said. “It was invaluable.”

“Oh, I was happy to help,” she said, waving it off, though her eyes lingered on me. “It’s rare to witness such power.”

“How does it work?” I asked suddenly. “How can you sense magic?”

Tenebris’s lips curled into a slow, enigmatic smile. “Ah, sensing magic,” she said, her tone smooth and low. “It’s not just about perception, you see. It’s about connection. Magic leaves traces, like ripples in a pond. Some are subtle, others more pronounced. It’s a matter of attuning oneself to those ripples, feeling their patterns, their strength. I am one of those who was born under a special celestial alignment, you know,” she said, then squinted her eyes at me. “But I have a feeling that you can sense magic to some extent too, can’t you?”

I shook my head. “Just that low hum,” I said, waving around. “What everyone hears.”

“How old were you when your magic manifested?” she asked.

“I was– I was nine.”

A drop of tea spilled on her finger, which she licked off. “That’s quite young. So since the age of nine you've been living under the impression that everyone else can hear the magic around them?”

“Well they can, can’t they?” I shrugged.

“They can’t,” said Locke dryly. 

“You should do some research,” Tenebris added, looking at Locke, “about his ancestors.”

“I don’t know my parents,” I said quickly. 

“That’s why I said research,” Tenebris nodded knowingly, her gaze lingering on me with an almost unsettling interest. “And remember, you are always welcome back.”

Locke gave a polite nod. “Let’s stay in touch.”

Tenebris walked us to the front door. Her hand touched my arm as we were about to leave.

“Be cautious,” she said softly. “Magic, especially of your kind, can be... unpredictable.” Her silver eyes seemed kind, but her voice carried a chilling undertone that made me shiver. I just nodded. 

Locke and I made our way across the front yard, our footsteps crunching on the gravel. I glanced back at the house, catching one last glimpse of Tenebris standing in the doorway. Her silhouette was framed by the dim light from within, her gaze still fixed on us. That smile, with the too many teeth, played on her lips.

 

There was a heavy silence in the carriage, only broken by the occasional groan of the wheels over the uneven road. Locke sat comfortably leaning back in his seat, but his crossed arms and narrowed eyes, as he watched the scenery outside, betrayed his tension.
I still had a strange, uncomfortable feeling in my chest. As if someone had stirred something there that had never been touched before. Something that was an integral part of who I was. I carefully touched my chest with one fist: I could feel the magic and my heart pounding wildly. I tried to focus on the magic, on the threads that wove through me, but I only felt the usual, faint vibration. Then I noticed that Locke was watching me, so I quickly lowered my hand.

“What if–” I said quickly, then fell silent. We bumped along past enormous trees, and it was already getting dark outside, and the twisted, gnarled branches reached out towards the carriage as if trying to keep us in this forest. 

“What if?” prompted Locke, looking at me with a questioning expression.

“What if I will never be able to control it?” I asked quietly, staring at the shadows outside.

“Why wouldn’t you?”

His voice sounded understanding. I glanced at him and saw his calm, curious face. Like someone ready for a long conversation about the topic.

That was the last thing I wanted. With an impatient sigh, I turned back towards the window. “Fuck it,” I murmured. “You know, control and self-disciple and all the bullshit you are always talking about. What Tenebris said– it sounded like it is hard to learn to manage this magic. Maybe it would be hard even for someone who is good at magic.”

“You are good at magic,” he said. He looked honest. I felt my chest tighten.

“Could you just answer my question, please?” I muttered through clenched teeth. 

Locke didn’t answer right away, and that made the silence feel heavier. I could feel his eyes on me, but I didn’t want to meet his gaze.

“There are ways to suppress it,” he said after a long pause. “In extreme cases, we can use techniques to limit a magician’s abilities. Binding their magic, restricting access to it, or weakening it altogether.”

A chill ran through me. “And you’d do that? If I can’t control it?”

I didn't know what answer I would actually find reassuring.

“If it came to the point where your magic was a danger to yourself or others, it would be an option,” he admitted. 

I didn’t know how to feel about this answer.

I swallowed hard. “What– how do they do it?”

“There are several ways,” he said, keeping his serious eyes on my face. “Spells that can bind magic. Substances that suppress it for a while. With the proper rituals, we can build places that make it impossible to use magic there… remember how I said that you shouldn’t have been able to conjure a light sphere down in the cell?”

“Yes?”

“That is one of those places. No magician should be capable of using magic in those cells.”

“But…”

“But you did? Yes. I found that rather worrying.”

I winced. “Sorry.”

“It is not your fault.”

“So what– I can get dangerous? What if it can’t be controlled? What if– shit, what if I really burn down the Sanctum?”

He sighed. “Have you heard of the Kowlanow Armbands?”

“That’s what they use on magical criminals?”

“Yes. The armbands compress magic entirely. They are one of the strongest magical artefacts ever made. I’m fairly sure they would work even on you.”

“That’s what they use on magical criminals!” I repeated, this time without the questioning tone.

His gaze hardened a bit, though it didn’t feel like he was angry with me. “It’s not pleasant.”

“And you’d put one of those on me?”

Locke exhaled sharply, frustrated. “I don’t want to. But if it became necessary – if your magic became uncontrollable, dangerous – then yes, it might be the only way. It’s not something I’d consider lightly.”

“You've thought about this before.”

“Yes,” he said evenly. 

I  wanted to be angry. Locke had just said he thought I was good at magic, but it felt like a lie, a hollow compliment. How could he say that and then, only moments later, admit he’d already considered ways to restrict my power? That he’d actually planned for the possibility of my magic becoming a danger? Not unsettling at all.

How would he know when I was truly dangerous? Would there be a clear sign, or would it be a gradual descent into uncontrollable chaos? It was somewhat reassuring to think that I would be stopped before I burn down something important again, but the alternative – the idea that I could be subdued, suppressed, rendered powerless… was hardly comforting.

“I’ve used the Runeveil Ward before,” I said abruptly.

Locke turned his head slowly, his gaze sharp but calm. “Without the safety spells, I guess.”

“Yeah. I was– I mean, you can bind the spell to something. Like an anchor. To stabilise the runes.”

He didn’t say anything right away, and I braced myself for the lecture. But he just leaned forward, gesturing for me to continue. “How would this bond work?”

“You redirect the energy. You tie the ward to something that can absorb and ground the excess magic. That way, the runes don’t spin out of control. It makes the whole thing more stable.”

Locke tilted his head, considering. “Interesting. It could stabilise the magic, theoretically, but the object used for the bond would need to be something incredibly powerful to anchor that much energy.”

I shrugged, “Yeah.”

“And you would also need to ward the object itself, to ensure that the bond doesn’t backfire.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Of course,” I lied. 

What the hell did I think, bringing up this topic in the first place?

His eyes narrowed. “What did you use?”

I took a deep breath. His eyes were on me, dark and serious. Suspicious. 

Slowly, I slipped my left hand out of the sleeve of my coat. I could see by the look on Locke's face that he already knew where we were going, and he didn't like it at all. I rolled up my shirt to my elbow, exposing the faint, jagged lines etched into my skin.

I suddenly had a thought that Locke had never even seen my exposed forearm – but even if he had, the scars were barely noticeable, pale, silvery lines that had long since healed over. They’d stretched and warped with the growth of my arm, but for someone who knew what to look for, it was clear they weren’t from any ordinary injury.

And Locke was definitely someone who knew. He grabbed my wrist without warning, his eyes narrowing as he examined the faint marks. His gaze darkened in a way I had rarely seen. His voice, when he spoke, was dangerously quiet. “You carved the runes into yourself?”

I nodded, biting into my lower lip.

Locke reached out, his fingertips brushing lightly over the silvery lines. “Something incredibly powerful,” he repeated his earlier words, his tone now sharp and a bit sour. “This is not how I meant it.”

“I never really felt powerful,” I mumbled, trying to pull my arm back, but his grip tightened.

“This,” he growled, yanking my arm closer, his fingers gripping my wrist firmly, “is the most stupid, most reckless thing I’ve ever seen.”

“But it worked,” I said, a bit defiant but in a small voice. 

Locke leaned in closer, his eyes narrowing as he studied the scars with a mixture of disbelief and anger. “You carved ancient runes into your own skin,” he muttered, shaking his head slowly. His grip on my arm didn’t loosen. “And you're proud of it because it worked?”

I swallowed hard, my throat tight. “I just wanted to tell you why I thought that it works without the safety spells.”

He gave a long exhale, finally letting my wrist go. His expression was tight as he leaned back, folding his arms over his chest. “These are old scars,” he said, watching me carefully. “How old were you?”

I swallowed again. “Nine.”

“Nine…” He eyed me thoughtfully. “You just said to Tenebris that you were nine when your magic first manifested – quite young, we might add. And now you're telling me that in the same year you performed rituals on yourself? Rituals that are challenging even for adult magicians? Rituals that are unstable and dangerous without the proper safety spells?”

“Well right, if you put it like this, it sounds riskier than it actually–”

“No,” he interrupted. “No, it doesn't sound a tenth as risky as it was.”

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, not sure whether to feel guilty or defensive. 

“I didn't tell you this for you to get angry about something that happened a decade ago,” I crossed my arms too. Defensive, then . 

Locke's gaze darkened, his voice dropping low, dangerously cold. “If you ever pull something like this again, if you ever take such a reckless risk–” He leaned in, eyes locking onto mine. “I swear, I will personally make sure that the consequences will be something you will deeply regret.”

For a moment, I just stared at him. Then rolled my eyes.

“That’s quite vague, don’t you think?” 

His expression remained stern, his voice unwavering. “I would like you to remain cautious,” he said firmly. 

“Alright,” I murmured. “It’s not like I would ever want to do it again. As stupid and irresponsible as you think I am, I know it wasn't the best way to be safe.”

Locke sighed, his gaze softening a bit. “Why did you use it?”

“I had a book, and this was in it.”

He raised a questioning eyebrow.

“I had one book,” I clarified. 

He shook his head, exasperated.

“Is Tenebris a witch?” I asked abruptly. Let’s just change the subject finally.

“What?” Locke replied, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“Tenebris. Is she a witch?”

“She’s a magician.”

“You know what I mean. She even lives in a witch-house!”

“Witches only exist in fairy tales.”

“She acted like a witch,” I insisted.

“She is not a witch,” Locke said firmly.

“She looked like she wanted to eat me!” I protested.

Locke shrugged, as if this were perfectly normal.

“She has a unique power. She helped us a lot.”

“I don’t want to say that she wasn’t helpful,” I said slowly, “But she was creepy.”

“You're going to start learning advanced meditations,” Locke said, brushing my thoughts aside. “How often do you meditate?”

“Do I what?” I asked, the words slipping out before I could have collected my thoughts and lied something.

Locke’s expression darkened with disbelief. “How often do you meditate?” he repeated, slower this time.

“I– well, I– sometimes.” I stammered.

His stare remained heavy. “When was the last time?”

“Not that long ago,” I said quickly, but then, faltering under his gaze, I added, “But… maybe a little… long ago.”

He rested his temple on his fingers, sighing. “When?” he asked.

I swallowed. “I don’t know,” I admitted, looking away.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing. “Did you ever meditate?”

“I tried! It was…boring.”

There was a moment of stunned silence.

“Boring?” He repeated the word like it offended him personally. “Meditation is the foundation of control! What do you even mean by boring ?” He closed his eyes briefly, taking a measured breath. “Alright. That was my mistake, too” he said, his tone softer but still firm. “I should have asked sooner. I just assumed – wrongly – that you had been doing this all along. Meditation is so fundamental, I didn’t think it was something I would need to teach from scratch. Without meditation, without focus, you have no control over your magic.”

“I've managed fine so far,” I argued weakly.

“Have you?”

There was a moment of silence.

“Starting tomorrow,” Locke said, his voice regaining its firmness, “you will begin daily meditation. I will guide you through the basics and then into more advanced techniques.”

“But–”

“This is not up for debate.”

I rolled my eyes. “Alright.”

Locke leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, his gaze fixed on me. “What was it I said about rolling your eyes?”

I shifted uncomfortably, trying to maintain my composure. “I… don’t know.”

Locke's eyebrows knitted together. “You don’t know what I said?”

I hesitated, then shrugged. “No. I forgot.”

“You forgot,” he repeated, his tone flat.

“I did,” I confirmed, shifting my weight.

“It was just today when you admitted that you did not enjoy being in that cell.”

I shrugged again, trying to keep my tone light. “I didn’t forget the cell. I just forgot you’re the authority on facial expressions too.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah.” He just raised an eyebrow. My hands were getting sweaty, and I wiped them on my trousers, gulping.  “I mean, you seemed kind of– you let me get away with it several times.”

“I did,” he said. “But please don’t make the mistake of thinking I’ve gone soft.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good.”

“Could I roll my eyes if you are not seeing it?” I asked, genuinely curious.

“No,” he said simply.

“Why? How would you know?” I persisted.

“I don’t need to see it to know,” Locke answered, his tone unwavering.

I should keep quiet.

“Oh, so you’re a mind reader now? Impressive.”

Why can’t I just keep quiet?

His expression didn’t change. “It’s about your internal consistency and commitment to the principles we uphold,” he stated plainly.

“Alright, alright,” I said, looking down at my hands. “I get it.”

“Good.”

Slowly, we arrived in the city. The wheels of the carriage rolled over the cobblestones, their rhythmic clatter providing a steady, almost soothing rhythm. The sun was setting over the houses, and the light reflecting off the coloured window panes cast a warm glow over the streets. The evening seemed quiet.

It was a strange feeling that I was heading home to the Sanctum, both comforting and deeply frightening. Who knows what the future might bring.

 

 

 

Notes:

Hejj, thank you for being here!
every reaction is deeply appreciated ^^

Chapter 14: The Night of the Ashes

Summary:

In this chapter, they celebrate the Night of the Ashes.
This is a shorter chapter (as WIll does not attend the Night of the Ashes).

Who knows what the future might bring? Well, the future brought Locke’s newest mania: meditation.

He had embraced meditation with a fervour that bordered on obsession. The shorter early morning sessions, right outside on the training grounds, were structured and brisk, designed to energise and focus. I could survive those, even if I was barely awake for most of them. But the evening sessions were another matter entirely. They stretched on for hours, and despite my repeated protests that they were pointless, Locke insisted they were ‘crucial for mastering control and concentration.’

These evening meditations were a ritualistic ordeal. We would sit in a dimly lit chamber of the Sanctum, in silent stillness and often accompanied by the scent of candles and incense intended to aid concentration. Locke would guide me through intricate visualisations and breathing exercises. They were often accompanied by long periods of silence, where my only task was to maintain a specific mental state or to focus on an abstract concept.

Sounds bad? 

Well, it felt like a punishment. 

“This is bullshit,” I said. “You just enjoy making me suffer.”

“Right now I enjoy how beautifully worded your opinion is.”

“This meditation is…like sitting through an endless stream of unspoken demands and unfulfilled promises.”

I’m never good enough for you.

But Locke didn’t really care about my opinion, however I phrased it. At least I could roll my eyes behind closed eyelids as much as I wanted—because in these situations, it was a necessity.

 

*

 

“You met Tenebris?” Sol gasped in amazement.

“Uh-huh.”

“Wow!” He was clearly more thrilled than I was when the meeting happened. “What was she like?”

“Creepy,” I shrugged, tossing carrot slices into my cauldron.

“One of the most extraordinary magic users of our time!” Sol was still in awe. “Why was she creepy?”

“I mean yeah, she seemed really knowledgeable,” I shrugged again, “but acted like she’d rather eat me or something.”

“Oh,” Sol was throwing broccoli into his own cauldron. “They say that great power has... interesting effects on a person over time.” He glanced at me sideways in a strange manner.

“What?” I asked, placing the pepper on the scale.

“You have quite a lot of power too, don't you?” he asked cautiously. “Has anything been discovered?”

“According to Tenebris, I was born this way,” I replied slowly. “No one knows why.”

“And is this–” He seemed uncertain. “I don't want to offend you, I'm just curious if it’s somehow connected…”

“To the Dusk? Feel free to ask…I wish I knew.”

“At least this time you managed to leave the Sanctum without them appearing.”

“Yeah, that’s something, isn’t it? Locke was totally calm. I was thinking that maybe he genuinely doesn’t believe I have anything to do with the Dusk, or he just doesn’t care if they show up. It was pretty…intense—I mean I thought it was awful being near the Dusk, but everyone acted like it was nothing. What must it be like when there are a lot of them?”

Sol was looking down at his cauldron, stirring the potions idly.

“Councillor Goldwin says that the truly worrying thing is that no one knows why or where they come from,” he said slowly. “No one wants it to turn out that there's an external threat behind them and we end up in a war... but at least then we’d know what’s happening. It seems to me that nobody knows or understands how they got here.”

“Locke tells me nothing,” I murmured, rolling my eyes as I picked up my knife to start peeling the potatoes. “He keeps repeating that the Council is dealing with the matter and that my job is just to focus on my studies.”

“It's funny,” Sol began, tapping his spoon against his cauldron thoughtfully, “you spend half your time complaining about Locke, and the other half trying your hardest to meet his expectations.” He flashed a knowing grin. “Wonder what that’s about?”

I frowned at him. “It’s about not getting thrown into a cell, that’s what.”

Sol chuckled, tossing a few more vegetables into his cauldron. “You listen to him, even if you gripe about it later.”

“Of course I listen to him,” I replied, focusing on peeling the potato in my hand. “He’s the one who’s supposed to be teaching me, isn’t he?”

“Right,” said Sol, and I put down my potato to glare at him, because he was trying unsuccessfully) to hide a wide grin.

“I just don’t want to fail,” I stated. “That’s all.”

“I see,” he said.

I huffed and picked up the potato again, resuming my peeling with more force than necessary. Sol let out a quiet sigh but didn’t say anything further. For a while, we worked in silence, the soft sounds of chopping and the bubbling of our cauldrons filling the room.

After a few minutes, Sol cleared his throat. “Are you coming to the Night?”

I glanced up, frowning. “To the what?”

“The Night of the Ashes. It’s tonight.” He looked at me, clearly expecting some kind of recognition.

He didn’t get any. “What is the Night of the Ashes?”

Sol looked at me with a frown. “You know, the memorial night? The night when the prince died?”

“Oh.” My potion boiled over at that very moment. Hot, dark green juice dripped onto my open book, burning holes in the paper with a hissing sound. A delicious smell of vegetables wafted around us. I performed a quick cleaning spell, which cleared the book off the table neatly. Cursing, I performed another spell, which finally cleared away the potion – and everything else in the room. 

There was a deep silence.

“But sometimes you are so good at spells,” said Sol quietly, as we watched the empty brick walls around us. Even the paint disappeared. “There are so many things we practise for ages, and you do them like they’re as simple as breathing. But then what happens in these moments?”

“I wish I knew,” I sighed, glancing around. “Locke’s gonna kill me.”

 

Locke just shook his head after I told him what happened. (I decided to tell him, because no matter how vast and deserted the Sanctum was, someone was bound to notice eventually that all the equipment and the stored materials inside an alchemy study chamber had simply vanished into thin air.)

“What would happen if something similar occurred with your other spells?” he asked, surveying the empty chamber. Beyond the bare walls, there was not much to survey. “The consequences could be much worse than just an emptied room.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose!” I shot back, my voice harder than I intended. “It’s not like I’m deliberately trying to wreck everything.”

He looked at me with a troubled expression. “I know,” he said calmly. “And I also know that what you hear from me is always about—”

“Control and self-discipline, I know,” I muttered, bored.

He might have nodded and then lectured me on the importance of control and self-discipline, but instead, he just sighed. Perhaps he was as weary of it as I was.

“Let’s meditate,” he said finally.

I groaned inwardly, as he was already guiding me out of the study chamber. “Isn’t there a less boring way to handle this?”

His face remained totally impassive. “If you can think of one, I’m all ears.”

I rolled my eyes, but followed him in silence through the dimly lit corridors. 

The Sanctum had several meditation chambers, each crafted for a specific purpose. There were vast rooms lined with intricate tapestries and imbued with soothing ambient light for calming meditations. Some chambers were dedicated to elemental forces, with controlled environments designed to strengthen one’s affinity with fire, water, air, or earth. These rooms were a marvel of magical design, but the thought of being surrounded by intensifying elements wasn’t appealing to me. There were also chambers aimed at enhancing magical abilities, with enchanted fixtures and relics to amplify or refine spells. Locke and I agreed on one thing: the last thing I needed was to accidentally boost my power further.

The Focus Chamber was Locke’s preferred choice, a space defined by its austere simplicity. The walls were bare and the floor was etched with intricate runes that glowed faintly in the dim light. 

“Sit,” Locke instructed as I closed the door behind us.

I settled onto the rune-etched floor, trying to ignore the cold, hard surface beneath me. Locke took his place opposite me, his expression calm and focused. “Are you ready?”

“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

He raised an eyebrow, his face dark and shadowy in the low light. “Your enthusiasm is really reassuring.” I opened my mouth, but he raised a hang to silence me. “Let’s try to channel that energy into your focus. Close your eyes.”

I took a deep breath, partly out of boredom and partly to prepare myself. I closed my eyes.

There was a long silence. 

“I take a slow, deep breath and focus on the rhythm of my breathing,” he started. I took a slow, deep breath and tried to focus on the rhythm. “With each inhalation and exhalation, I feel a deepening sense of calm and focus.” Really? Do I? His voice was low and quiet, almost soothing. “The external world’s noise and distractions gradually fade away. Only I am here, at this moment, with complete concentration.”

I shifted slightly, trying to get comfortable on the hard floor. Locke’s words continued, methodical and persistent. “I feel the tension leaving my body with each breath. I let the rhythm of my breathing guide me deeper into focus.”

As much as I wanted to resist, his steady voice was almost hypnotic. I focused on my breathing, pushing away my thoughts. “I focus on the space around me, the subtle energy of the runes beneath me,” Locke’s voice droned on, slowly, leaving long pauses. “I feel the resonance. I allow it to harmonise with my energy.”

I tried to sense the runes, not the cold surface beneath me, but the faint hum of energy. It was easy to feel; the hard part was to block out everything else.

“The external noise is gone. The only sound is my breath. The only presence is my focus,” he continued.

I wanted to argue, to complain about how pointless this felt, but I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want to defy him just for the sake of it. If I really concentrated, sometimes I could feel a slight shift in my awareness, a faint sense of calm that was almost, but not quite, convincing.

Locke’s voice was soft and warm, “I am holding this state. I let it deepen. I am in control. I am focused.”

I didn’t fight it, not exactly. I didn’t have the energy. I just let it happen. The tension drained from my shoulders. My thoughts slowed, losing their sharpness, until finally, they faded into a distant murmur.

There was only the rhythm of my breath and the deep, quiet calm that filled the space where my thoughts used to be.

 

“Would you like to go to the Night of the Ashes?” Locke asked, while I was doing my mandatory rest after the meditation (just sitting a bit more on the floor).

“I’ve never been,” I replied, trying not to reveal that I actually had no idea what it was.

“We always hold the remembrance ceremony in every larger city,” he explained. “Here, it is usually in the main square, right in front of the Citadel’s entrance. At sunset, there will be a solemn commemoration, followed by food and dancing to celebrate the prince.”

“With food and dancing, we celebrate the prince’s death?” I grimaced.

“With food and dancing, we celebrate the prince’s life,” he corrected. “It’s an important event. After Scyrea, it’s the largest commemoration we hold here. It also symbolises the Council’s role in the kingdom’s life.”

“So, we’re turning the prince’s death into a political event,” I nodded.

“You can go if you want,” he said, ignoring my remark. “But I need to know if you’re leaving the Sanctum.”

“I can leave the Sanctum?” I raised an eyebrow.

“With a guard,” he admitted.

“Then thanks, but I’d rather stay here. I don’t need an escort.”

He watched me for a moment, his eyes flickering with something I couldn’t quite read. Sadness? Concern? I looked away, already feeling the irritation build in my chest. 

“You don’t have to decide now,” he said quietly. “Find me after dinner if you change your mind.”

“Can I leave now?”

“Be slow when you stand up.”

 

Only a few people were left in the Refectory when I arrived, and they were already hurrying. Sol tried to convince me to join them, and the others seemed enthusiastic too. This Night of Ashes sounded like something… fun?

“It’s beautiful,” Tessa said. “I always get emotional.”

“They really emphasise remembering the prince’s life with celebration, not just with sorrow,” Sol said.

“And the food is delicious,” Gavin added. “And you get to dance with pretty girls. I couldn’t care less about the royal family.”

“But you don’t care about anyone,” I muttered. That was just plain mean; I didn’t even know Gavin well enough to make such a remark about him. I picked at my food with a pang of guilt. “Have fun,” I added, trying to sound sincere. 

Tessa gave me a warm smile, placing a hand on my shoulder as they left. “Maybe next time.”

I finished my dinner alone. 

 

That night, I dreamed of the moon.

I lay on my back, staring up at the enormous, glowing orb above me. It was mesmerising, radiating brilliantly in the dark sky with a yellowish, fiery glow.

It was made of flames. Of fire.

In the dream, I drifted closer to it. The flames flared and hissed, casting yellowish light beams onto the dark, spiky rooftops of the city below. The air was hot, shimmering and warping around me. I felt the heat searing my throat with every breath I took.

I reached out, and a piece of flame leapt onto my palm. It tickled rather than burned, and I laughed at the strange, delightful sensation – even as my chest tightened with a suffocating dread. I tried to pull away, but the flames surged forward. They didn’t burn me, but in my dream I wished they would.

The moon’s flames began to shape-shift, twisting into serpentine forms that writhed and coiled through the air. Each shape seamlessly dissolved into the next, and I watched, entranced, as if in a dream, while aeons passed by: the city below decayed into ruin, buildings crumbled into skeletal remains, overtaken by nature. Hills and mountains rose in their place, new rivers carved their paths, and seas swelled to flood the world...

And then, just as abruptly as it had begun, the fire dimmed, leaving me floating in the void, surrounded by cold, empty darkness.

 

I woke up lying on my back. Everything was cold. And dark. I was lying on something very hard and uncomfortable, with the moon shining brightly above me.

I sat up so abruptly that I felt a bit dizzy. Around me were rooftops, windows, towers, and chimneys.

The damned roof of the Sanctum.

I scrambled to my feet. From a distance, I could hear music and the sounds of celebrating. I pulled my cloak tighter around me—I was already in my nightclothes underneath—and carefully climbed up the roof tiles. They were a bit slippery, but by gripping the ridge and pulling myself up, I managed to catch a glimpse of the main square.

It was a flurry of movement and light. Strings of glowing lanterns hung from the tall buildings and across the square, casting a warm, golden hue over everything. The sound was muffled from this distance, but I still could hear the music and laughter, the drums and the flutes and the occasional cheer from the crowd.

In the centre of the square, a large bonfire crackled and roared, its flames leaping high into the night sky. Around it people gathered, their faces illuminated by the fire’s flickering light. Its glow painted the scene with a rich, orange tint, casting long shadows that danced across the cobblestones.

A cold wind cut through my cloak, sending a shiver down my spine.

I turned away from the spectacle. Carefully, I climbed back down to the roof's edge, gripping the tiles as I descended. Then I slipped through a window and into the darkness of the Sanctum, leaving behind the celebration.

Chapter 15: Stay out of my sight

Summary:

“Stay out of my sight until you can demonstrate you've learned something.”

Sneaking into the library wasn’t difficult at all. Councillor Aman was often there during the day, as were a few librarians, an occasional Councillor or an Apprentice, but the place was so vast that even in daylight, it was easy to disappear from sight. At night, the entire library was mine – all its floors and half-floors, its halls, rooms, shelves, hidden corners, secret passages and cosy reading nooks.

The librarians had put back the books that my magic had displaced. Councillor Aman had once again listed all the library rules for me, but he showed no sign of being angry. I felt a twinge of guilt about what had happened, but Locke’s rule about not being allowed to come to the library alone seemed ridiculous. The nighttime sneaking had caused me no guilt at all.

I settled into my favourite spot, a comfortable armchair nestled between two towering stacks of books. My light sphere cast a warm glow over the pages of my book, making the shadows dance softly on the walls. That night I had chosen an adventure novel: The Lost Kingdom of Fonyod , a huge volume about a young hero's journey through treacherous landscapes and ancient ruins in search of a mysterious city. There were mythical creatures and cunning adversaries, narrow escapes, and a fast-paced narrative. 

The story was thrilling—I only fell asleep from exhaustion, not because it wasn’t interesting enough. With the book in my lap and my head resting on the back of the soft armchair, I slept better that night than I had in a long time.

 

I woke up with a start, blinking against the dim light of my fading sphere. The armchair was warm beneath me, soft and peaceful, and for a brief moment, I couldn’t remember where I was. 

Then I bolted upright. 

Oh, shit. 

Heart pounding, I scrambled to my feet, the book slipping from my lap and landing with a thud on the floor. I glanced wildly around the room, my eyes finally landing on a small brass clock resting on a nearby table. 

Shit, shit, shit.

I was already half an hour late for the morning training, and I was standing in a faraway, hidden corner of the library, with sleep-mussed hair and in my rumpled nightclothes (a simple linen shirt and a pair of soft trousers, clearly not my training clothes or my uniform). I cursed quietly, gathered my cloak around me, and darted for the exit. 

When I finally arrived, gasping for breath, I saw Locke already there, executing a series of smooth, precise drills. I slowed my pace, trying to pull my cloak tighter, hiding my nightclothes. I attempted to stroll forward casually, as though I hadn’t just sprinted across the entire Sanctum. Maybe if I joined the drills now, he wouldn’t notice that I’d been absent for the last forty minutes.

He didn’t look up immediately, his sword cutting clean arcs through the air as he moved from one drill to the next with practised ease. Always so fucking perfect . I hesitated at the edge of the training ground, shivering slightly in the crisp morning air.

“You’re late,” he said without pausing.

I pulled my cloak tighter around myself, trying not to fidget. “I was… caught up,” I muttered.

He finished his drill with a sharp flick of his wrist. His gaze shifted to me, sharp and assessing. I shifted my weight. “Caught up,” he repeated.

“Yeah…” I didn’t like the way he was looking at me.

“Right,” he nodded. “Training starts at five, not at your convenience. Did you forget?”

“No.”

He looked at me a bit more.

“Sorry?” I tried.

“I planned some concentration exercises for this morning,” he said, tilting his head to the side. “But since you seem determined to disregard discipline, you'll spend the rest of the morning running laps. If you collapse from exhaustion, you’re the only one responsible. Take off your cloak.” His tone was flat but carried a tension that made my stomach tighten.

I froze, my fingers instinctively tightening around the fabric, hiding the fact that I wasn’t even dressed for training.

“It’s– I don’t– It’s cold.”

“You can’t move around in that.”

“Well, it can flap behind me really nicely as I run, can’t it?”

“If you find the mornings too cold, wear your warmer clothes next time. Now, take it off.”

“We should go somewhere more comfortable,” I said. “If you really want to undress me.”

His expression didn’t change. He didn’t even flinch, just stared me down with an unimpressed gaze. 

My mouth went dry.

Why did I say that?

“Impertinence isn’t a trait I tolerate,” he said eventually. “Take off your cloak and start moving.”

Why didn’t I? I don’t even know. I just stood there, my body tense and my heart beating fast, staring at the uneven stones paving the ground, as the seconds ticked by.

Locke watched me, his gaze cool and steady.

“Very well.” He took a step back with a cold sigh. “Training is over for today.”

I blinked, surprised. “What?”

“There’s no point in doing this if you can’t follow simple instructions. Come back when you’re ready to take this seriously.”

I stared at him as he turned to leave. Then he paused and turned back, and I thought– is he going to change his mind? Give me another chance? Yell at me? Lock me up? Kick me out of the Sanctum? (Not likely, because I might end up blowing up the world or something if my power’s not supervised.) But I had the feeling that I’d crossed some important line somewhere around here.

He stepped closer, and I instinctively stepped back—but not fast enough. His hand shot out, gripping the front of my cloak and yanking it open, exposing my crumpled nightshirt beneath.

“Did you sleep in your bed?” he asked, voice dangerously calm.

“Jealous I didn’t invite you for a sleepover?”

Locke raised an eyebrow, unfazed. Just looking at me, his fingers slowly letting my cloak go. I did not dare to step away.

The silence stretched.

‘I–”

Just a cold, expectant gaze. I shifted my weight, looking around until I found a nice point on the tall stone walls to stare at. 

Then his hand shot out again, a finger hooking under my chin, just for a quick, rough movement, yanking my head up, forcing me to look into his face.

“Speak,” he said. 

“I fell asleep in the library,” I muttered, probably too low for him to hear.

“Excuse me?”

“The library,” I repeated, avoiding his eyes. “I fell asleep in the library.”

“The library.” There was a short but deeply unsettling silence. “Did you forget you are not allowed in the library on your own?”

I bit into my lip.

“Well? Did you?”

“No.”

He was silent for a long time. He still held the practice sword in his right hand, and his arm jolted, and for a moment I was afraid he was going to use its blunt tip to gut me. 

“Very well,” he stepped back, his expression tightening. “Stay out of my sight until you can demonstrate you've learned something.”

I watched as he turned on his heel and walked away. The door to the Sanctum closed behind him with a sharp slam, and I winced at the harsh sound.

What the hell was I thinking?

I was left alone in the middle of the training ground. The sky was just beginning to lighten behind the roof of the Sanctum, and the cool autumn wind swept a few dry leaves to the edge of the square, where they rustled softly on the cobblestones.

I thought I’d do a few exercises, damn it. I looked towards the alcoves, where my usual practice sword lay on the shelf, where I had left it a few days ago. We hadn’t used it as often lately because Locke had been trying to train my body and mind with all sorts of other exercises, but from time to time, we came back to it. According to Locke, swordsmanship combined attention, focus, self-discipline, speed, and who knows what else (all of which I was probably lacking). I wasn’t as clumsy as I had been a few months ago, but I still couldn’t hold my own against Locke. I probably never would.

Then I thought about running a few laps. I hadn’t come to enjoy running, especially not these deathly boring, monotonous laps that Locke sometimes forced me to do here on the training ground, but it felt good to realise that I could handle more now without wanting to die.

I also considered doing some strength or balance exercises. Those were awful, but Locke loved doing them. Loved even more making me do them.

Then I watched a few birds flying across the sky above the Sanctum.

In the end, I did nothing, just sighed, turned around and went back into the building. 

 

I had breakfast alone because no one else was in the Refectory so early. I ate eggs and toast, drank a lot of tea, and tried not to think about anything but my food. It was good. The food in the Sanctum was always plentiful and good. 

I spent some time tidying my room, and I tried no to think about Locke, just focusing on the books and papers and clothes and the places where I should put them. Everything here belonged to the Sanctum, every last quill and half pair of socks and all the books I kept in neat piles, but I was used to not having my own things now. 

There was a forenoon lesson on astral studies with Councillor Arfinnr, where he talked about some of his recent studies. He made it sound really interesting, but when he drew his third three-dimensional diagram, which was so big he had to open a window and push aside a cabinet so that all the data could be visible (although I didn't happen to see any of what was hanging out of the window), I could no longer follow what he was talking about. He began to ramble about cosmic inflation and dark energy, weaving terms like “quantum fluctuations” and “cosmological redshift” into his speech. I stared at the swirling lines and curves he’d sketched, trying to make sense of it all, really trying – but it was clearly much more than my level in astronomy.

The one thing that reassured me a bit was that the other four apprentices present seemed to be just as clueless as I was. Sol and I exchanged more than one confused glance, and even when my eyes met Gavin’s, it seemed like there was a shared sense of confusion between us as well.

 

During lunch, sitting a little farther from the others, I quietly told Sol what had happened.

“...so he basically told me to stay out of his sight. And left me there.”

Sol was slowly chewing on some vegetables. “And you told him you were in the library?”

“Well, what else should I have said? I can’t just lie to him in the face!”

“Will, Locke is—Locke. And you basically… challenged him.”

“Believe me, I’m aware.” I slouched lower, pushing my plate away. “I’m just—he’s going to kick me out, isn’t he? I’ve messed up too many times already. If he kicks me out of the Sanctum, what then? What happens to me then?”

Sol shook his head slowly. “He can’t kick you out. I mean I wouldn’t think he wants to, but also, you are magically bonded as master and apprentice.”

“I don't know which is worse,” I said with a dark laugh. “Getting kicked out, or having to stay here with a master who hates me.”

Sol made a sympathetic face, and put some more vegetables on his fork. “When are you meeting him next?” he asked.

“Just later this afternoon,” I replied. “Meditation session.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I know I have to apologise.” I ran a hand through my hair, feeling the anxiety gnaw at me. “But… oh hell, you can’t even imagine what I told him.”

Sol’s brow furrowed slightly, his fork pausing midway to his mouth. “What did you tell him?”

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, glancing around to make sure no one could hear us. “Things like… about him wanting to—wanting to undress me.”

Sol stared at me – then he laughed. 

What?” I said, incredulous.

“I mean, you would want him, don’t you?” Sol smirked, raising an eyebrow as if he found the whole situation amusing.

I felt my cheeks flush. “That’s not the point! I just panicked!”

“I mean, this is definitely not something I would do when panicking.”

I wanted to say something about him being perfect, about everyone here being so fucking perfect - but I kept my mouth shut. I knew Sol’s whole life centred around becoming an apprentice. I suspected he never had the chance to even imagine anything else. I was anxious about many things, but not being perfect was not one of them (I’d missed that opportunity long ago).

We finished our lunch in silence.

 

In the afternoon, I tried to read a chapter in Transforming the Mind , a book Locke had given me about meditation, but it felt dry and clinical. No matter how hard I tried to focus on neuroplasticity, my thoughts drifted, spiralling back to the morning’s chaos. I dreaded facing him again. Would he really be as cold as he’d been?

I pushed away my thoughts – I’m definitely not craving his approval. He is not obliged to put up with me, and that’s totally okay. I knew this all along. 

Still, the knot of anxiety in my stomach tightened, and in the end I stood up and just roamed my room, kicking at a used shirt lying on the floor. 

Fuck it.

I kicked the shirt harder, wishing I could somehow kick away the weight of my shame and confusion.

 

I was in front of the study chamber probably earlier than ever. My heart raced as I stood there, rehearsing what I wanted to say. I was restless, unable to stand in one place, my fingers fidgeting with the hem of my cloak or drumming on my thighs. I clenched them into a fist, then slowly released it.

I’m gonna stay calm, and respectful, and just apologise sincerely and then we will study and I will pay attention and follow his orders and show that I can be worthy of his time. 

…If he even wants to hear me out at all.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady my racing thoughts. Just face it . I raised my hand and knocked on the door, the sound echoing in the stillness.

The silence that followed felt eternal. 

I gulped. Turned to the right, took a few steps, then marched back. Did I knock too softly? 

Did I knock at all?

What the hell am I doing?

I tried knocking again. 

Nothing.

I opened the door and peeked inside. The study chamber was empty.

 

I skipped dinner that night, instead opting to pace my room restlessly. I picked up a book, tried to focus on the words, but the lines blurred as my thoughts spiralled back to Locke. I tossed it aside and grabbed another, only to find my mind drifting again. I paced some more, my heart racing. In a moment of desperation, I even attempted to meditate, but that only deepened my anxiety.

I kicked my boots off at some point, then I fell asleep, fully clothed, exhausted.

I was no longer surprised when I found myself in a strange dream.

I was in a dark forest. The air was thick with mist, and I could barely see the bird in the gloom, flitting through the trees ahead of me, its feathers shimmering in the moonlight. 

Just when she started to sing did I remember that I have dreamt of her before, when she sang this same song, peculiar and melancholic, in that chamber deep down in the Sanctum, inside a silver cage. Now the rhythm seemed to match my steps as I followed her on the uneven path, pushing away branches and climbing through thorny bushes, the shadows twisting and shifting around me. The bird’s melody echoed through the air, and when I turned back to see where I’d come from, I saw only empty darkness behind me.

The path grew more twisted, the trees taller and darker. The bird led me to a clearing. There, she perched on a branch of a lonely tree, her eyes glimmering with sadness.

I reached out, yearning to touch her, but as I did, the bird suddenly took flight, leaving behind a whispering breeze. I stumbled forward, falling to my knees–

–and I landed on solid pavement, pain shooting up through both my legs.

My small, painful yelp echoed in the darkness around me. I looked around, but I could see nothing. I lit up a light sphere – and nothing happened. It felt weird at the time, not frightening yet.

But It didn’t feel like a dream anymore.

I searched around, but all I could feel was a paving stone beneath me. The surface was smooth and thick with dust. I shivered in the cool and musty air, took a deep breath, and ran my fingers through all the steps of the conjunction of a light sphere (it was a pretty simple spell, and other times I could just condense it into a quick gesture). I was still in total darkness. I looked around in vain, not being able to see anything, not a shadow, not some outlines in the darkness, not a sliver of light – nothing.

I whispered a simple incantation for illumination. I traced the sigil of light. I murmured another spell. I tried every single spell and enchantment I knew to make some light - but nothing happened.

I shook my head, frustrated, and stood up. I raised my hands, hoping I could feel something around me. My left hand bumped instantly into something solid. I stepped closer, my heart racing. 

At first, it felt smooth and hard, my fingers brushing over some familiar texture. Then I realised it was the spine of a book. My heart leapt at the discovery. I ran my fingers along the edge, tracing the grooves and bumps of its binding. The leather was cracked and worn, and when I slid it off the shelf I inhaled so much dust I had to cough. It smelled of secrets and old parchment.

I explored further, and my fingers brushed along more spines. I could feel titles embossed into the covers. I took a few steps: more shelves. I turned around, and took a few more, cautious steps forward: more shelves there, too. 

I was in a library, and suddenly I was perfectly aware of two things: I was no longer asleep, and I was not in the Sanctum anymore. 

Chapter 16: The Lost Library

Summary:

"I thought about shouting for help, but what if someone heard me—someone or something I wouldn’t want to run into in the middle of a dark library?"

Notes:

This chapter might be a little darker than the others.
(Literally, fur sure. But probably figuratively too?)

I thought my eyes would eventually adjust to the darkness, but that didn’t happen. There was simply no light at all.

After wading through the dense forest, the legs of my pants were torn in several places, and my skin was pierced by thorns. Blood seeped from multiple cuts. I was wearing socks, but no shoes, and I had to bend down to blindly pick some kind of spike out of my foot.

I stumbled along the rows of shelves, the stone floor cold beneath my feet, keeping my left hand on the books (the left one, so that if a book decided to attack me, I would still have my more useful hand. There were fierce books out there). I tried to find a wall, a window, a door—anything that might let in a bit of light or provide a way out of here, but I found nothing. Only shelves stood everywhere. I reached up beside one, but I couldn’t reach the top. I blindly moved a few books aside and climbed onto the shelf. It was much higher than I had expected, and in the end, I had to push the books aside with one hand to make room to hold on, while I supported myself with the other. Finally, I managed to sit on the top, and then, a bit wobbly, I straightened up. If there was a ceiling, I couldn’t reach it. I sat there for a while, afraid I would fall while getting down, but eventually, I gathered my courage and made my way back down. 

I was wondering what time it could be. I probably fell asleep relatively early in the evening, but how much time could have passed since then? The dream didn't seem long, but who knows how time works in dreams... and let's not even get started on this random transportation-while-dreaming thing. 

It didn’t help that suddenly I remembered every scary story I’d ever read about libraries, but I couldn’t really decide which ones were real and which ones were just legend or fiction. The library of lost souls, which captured the souls of those who sought forbidden knowledge, trapping them in endless despair, must have been made up, mustn't it? But the stories of libraries that twist and turn like a labyrinth, where seekers lose their sanity trying to find the exit, were definitely real. And there were libraries guarded with all kinds of spells and magical beings against intruders… so I told the library out loud that I didn’t want to intrude, I just woke up here, and my voice echoed around but still sounded small and quiet in the darkness. 

I thought about shouting for help, but what if someone heard me—someone or something I wouldn’t want to run into in the middle of a dark library?

I also considered the possibility that the library might actually be lit and I was the one being blind, but I tried to push that thought as far away as possible.

I couldn’t find an exit, I couldn’t find a lantern, I couldn’t find anything, just endless rows of books. I couldn’t find a book that would light up. I built a small pile of three books and set it down in one corner, thinking it would help me navigate, but I never found my way back there again.

The fact that I didn’t have any magical power was becoming increasingly concerning. I had tried to summon a light sphere a million times—sometimes deliberately, but mostly just on instinct. If it was dark, my hand would just move, and the light sphere would float above my head immediately. And here, it was constantly dark. Spells and enchantments were one thing, but even when I tried to direct a beam of raw magic into the void, nothing happened. A shiver ran down my spine and I  hurried a bit farther away, as if the magic would work properly just a few rows ahead. It didn’t. 

Then I started to hear those sounds. Paper rustling. Pages turning in the distance. Cold voices whispering. 

I kept walking, only because I had no idea what else to do. Am I walking in circles? Is this library this huge? I saw shadows flickering just beyond my vision, and my steps quickened, my pounding heart drowning out the unsettling whispers that seemed to follow me. 

Hours passed, probably, and the feeling that I was not alone grew stronger with every step I took. 

The air was cold, tinged with the scent of musty paper and something else—something metallic, like blood. I reached out, my fingers brushing against the spines of the books. Some felt cool to the touch, others warm, almost pulsing beneath my fingertips, as if alive. I recoiled at one particularly clammy volume, its surface slick and unsettling, making me grimace with disgust.

Wood creaked, loud and disturbing, and I hid behind a shelf, though I didn’t even know which side of the shelf was behind , because I could not pinpoint the source of the noise. But no one came. No monsters ambushed me. I was alone. (Was I?)

The rows of shelves blurred together, shifting and swirling as if they were alive, twisting into grotesque shapes as I walked on, keeping my left hand on the shelf (trying to touch the wood, avoiding the spines). There was a moment when I could have sworn I felt a presence behind me—a warm breath on my neck, the faintest whisper in a strange language. I spun around, but there was only the endless darkness, suffocating and oppressive. 

Then, from the corner of my eye, I caught movement, just something even darker in front of all the other darkness. I turned quickly, my heart in my throat. A shadow flitted away, too fast for me to discern what it was, leaving only a lingering sense of dread. I swallowed hard, feeling the metallic taste of fear in my mouth.

What the hell should I do?

My throat was dry. I ignored it for a long time, then it struck me – I could die here. Like actually die . Alone and forgotten. No one would look for me. Locke said he didn’t even want to see me. There was no food here. No water. No light, and seemingly no way out. 

I forced myself to breathe. The fear wrapped around me like a shroud, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching, lurking just beyond my sight.

I tried to use my magic, then. I shouted every spell that came to my mind and drew every sigil I could remember. Magic usually just was there , but now – nothing. I shouted into the darkness, angry and desperate, but the library did not answer.

I ran, trying to find something, anything but the endless rows of books, but – nothing. I ran into a shelf, hit my head so hard I lost my balance and fell.

Then I sat, for a very very long time, on the floor, leaning my head down on my knees. 

I was very thirsty. All that shouting had probably not helped. And I was tired. Had a whole day passed? How many days could I go without water?

I fell asleep, curling up on the cold, hard stone, kind of hoping that I would dream myself back into the Sanctum. 

 

I did not. 

I woke up shivering, my body cold and sore, every muscle protesting as I tried to sit up. My throat felt like sandpaper, parched and aching, while a gnawing hunger twisted in my stomach, deep and relentless. 

But I could see . I blinked, heart racing, and there it was: light. Not much, but enough to reveal the outlines of the tall shelves surrounding me, the colours of some spines vibrant against the darkness. I clung to a shelf, my fingers trembling as I steadied myself. Dizziness washed over me, but I fought through it, drawn to the source of that shimmering glow.

The light flickered again, moving closer – it was the bird from my dream, beautiful and ethereal, glowing faintly. I stared in awe as she flew a graceful circle around me, her wings casting delicate shadows that danced on the shelves. Up close, she was so bright I had to raise a hand to shield my eyes. 

“What are you,” I started, then realised that wasn’t the most polite question to ask. I quickly added, “What are you doing here?”

She landed on a nearby shelf, raising her head up high, clicking her beak. She didn’t answer.  (At the time, it didn’t seem obvious that the bird wouldn’t answer. It felt annoying, as if she was just ignoring my question.)

“Do you know where we are?” I pressed, desperation creeping into my voice.

She spread her wings and leapt into the air, a swirl of light and movement.

“Don’t leave!” I exclaimed, instinctively lunging as if I could catch her. She just landed on a higher shelf, her head tilted to the side as she regarded me with an almost playful curiosity. “Sorry,” I added, not even knowing why. Probably because she was the only reason I could finally see. (Or maybe because I didn’t want to be alone.)

For some time, we just stood there in silence, the bird and I. 

“What should I do now?” I asked eventually. 

She did not answer.

“How did we get here?” I tried again.

Silence.

“I dreamt of you,” I said then, slowly, piecing together the fragments of my memories. “When I got to this place. Do you know a way out of here?”

She looked to one side. Then to the other. It was almost as if she were shaking her head.

With a deep sigh, I kicked the side of a nearby shelf, the dull thud echoing in the quiet. I slumped back to the floor. I might as well sit down if I’m going to die here anyway.

The bird flitted to a lower shelf, her glow flickering softly as if to reassure me, but I couldn't shake the feeling of hopelessness. “Great,” I muttered, “trapped in a dark library with a magical bird that can’t even talk.” I rested my head against my knees, trying to ignore the thirst and the hunger and generally all the thoughts about my situation.

An hour later, I was rifling through the books like a madman. The bird followed me wherever I went. I discovered one thing I hadn’t noticed the day before: a door or a passage, or something like that—but unfortunately, it didn’t reassure me because the entire area was collapsed, and the chunks of rubble blocking my potential escape route were bigger than me.

So, I threw myself at the books. They were ancient, and although my magic wasn’t working, I could feel a tremendous power within their pages. I tore one after another from the shelf and flipped through them, while the bird sat on my shoulder, illuminating the pages with her mysterious, slightly bluish light. Somewhere deep in my mind, I realised these books were extraordinary, and that many of them probably weren’t even in the Sanctum’s library, or were so old that they were thought to be long lost, or so dark that all copies had been burned long ago... But what intrigued me most was where the hell I was and how I could get out of here, and to this, none of them provided any answers. 

As the hours dragged on, the relentless task of sifting through ancient tomes became a monotonous blur. Each book held promise, but ultimately revealed nothing that would help me. My hands grew sore from flipping pages, and my eyes strained against the dim light.

My stomach twisted painfully, as it had done constantly for a while, and I felt weak, the dull throb of fatigue settling in my bones. The thirst was even worse; my throat burned, parched and raw. I felt light-headed, dizzy, and I struggled to maintain focus.

I glanced up at the shelves, despair washing over me. How long have I been here? I couldn't tell if it was day or night. The bird perched quietly, her head tilted as if she sensed my growing hopelessness. 

Just as I sank down into the cold stone (my feet so numb I could hardly feel them anymore), a change in the air caught my attention. It felt thicker, charged with a tension I couldn't quite place. I shivered. The flickering light from the bird dimmed momentarily, and I could swear I saw the shadows in the corners shift.

What the hell.

The darkness deepened, becoming an inky abyss that swallowed the faint light whole. I could barely breathe as the temperature plummeted. The bird let out a sharp, panicked shriek and shot upward, her glow flickering. I tried to jump to my feet, but my body felt heavy, rooted to the spot by an overwhelming sense of dread.

Then shapes began to materialise, emerging from the shadows. The Dusk. The fucking Dusk . They coalesced into figures that hovered just at the edges of my vision, their movements fluid and disjointed, like ink spreading across a page. They were human-like yet wholly unnatural, their bodies composed of shifting darkness my eyes could not follow. 

I scrambled to my feet and stumbled backward, but there was a shelf behind me and I was forced to halt, my back hitting the shelves painfully. Shadows were moving closer to me, and I shouted for the bird to come back, but she just let out a sad squawk, and I understood that she couldn’t help me now. 

I could feel the gaze of the Dusk creatures, cold and penetrating, watching me, waiting. I didn’t even know they had eyes. I pressed my back into the bookshelf. I had no magic to fight them. I grabbed a book and threw it into the direction of one of the creatures, but it just slid through it and landed on the floor with a loud thud. The shadows swirled closer, tendrils of darkness reaching out as if to embrace me. I felt nauseous. 

The Dusk circled me like predators closing in on prey. Their forms shifted and slithered, barely human, their movements silent and unhurried. I could feel them now—closer, closer still. Their touch, like icy fingers, grazed my arms, my neck, the back of my skull. It wasn’t violent, but far worse—it was soft, gentle, like a deadly blanket slowly suffocating me.

The world around me began to shift, growing hazy, disorienting, as the cold touch of the Dusk pulled me into a memory. I was small again, a child, barely able to understand the world, and I was alone, waking from a terrible dream. Shadows flickered on the walls of my room and I saw something looming just outside the window, something dark and hungry.

Suddenly, everything sharpened. Years passed. I wasn’t just remembering—I was there, running, no, fleeing, my footsteps echoing off the hard stone streets. The air burned in my lungs, and my heart was racing. I had never known terror like that before, I never even knew it existed. I used magic, my arm was bleeding. It was the only way to escape. The fear was so strong, I felt like my body was going to tear itself apart. I had no control. Just chaos and panic.

The Dusk surrounded me now, suffocating, their darkness seeping into me like poison. I could feel their icy tendrils working their way deeper into my mind.

There was a voice, cold and indifferent. Another one, arguing. The monks. I was in that dark hall. I could feel the bruises on my body, from some stupid injury, the weight of failure pressing into my bones. I’d messed up, again. The pain was sharp and deep, the pain of not being good enough. Of never being enough.

I collapsed to my knees, gasping for breath, shivering uncontrollably as the Dusk circled tighter.

Hits were landing on my back, and I was tied to some pole, my wrist holding me up as my legs could no longer support me. The flogger landed on my tortured skin again and again, as I got the hundred lashes I was promised, after being kicked out of the Sanctum. Locke was watching. I could never be good enough to be his apprentice. I deserved this. Locke promised it would not kill me, but he lied, because I could feel the leather strings of the flogger biting into my flesh, curving around my spine–

My body trembled, cold sweat slicking my skin. The touch of the Dusk was always there, so light yet invasive, pressing against my chest, my throat, squeezing the air from my lungs.

I managed to blow up the Sanctum, in the end. I was afraid that people would be angry at me, if I lost control, but no one was angry, because there were no people left. I stood in the middle of the ruins, while ash was still falling from the sky–

Ash. 

Fire.

I could feel my fingers scratching the cold stone beneath me, the Dusk enveloping me in darkness, but I was also in the fire, huge and all-consuming, and it filled my lungs with smoke–

“No, no, no, no.”

It was too much. 

I opened my eyes. I couldn’t see anything.

The fire kept roaring. 

I grabbed the shelf behind me. The fire is not real . I pushed myself up, higher, as the Dusk tried to push me back, like icy fingers on my shoulders.

“No,” I murmured. I was almost standing now, slumped on the shelves. I heard screams and my name and then I was running through the dark city, the flames illuminating the sky behind me, and I was telling myself that this is just a memory, and the Dusk can kill me or toss me into eternal darkness and misery but they can’t make me relive this. Not this. 

And then I was shrieking, my throat burning, my voice high and croaked and powerful , feral, full of every terror the Dusk had tried to force back into my mind. I let it out. My voice echoed through the endless rows of bookshelves, reverberating off the stone walls – and the shadows recoiled.

I breathed in some fresh air, choking. 

Tendrils crept toward me, and I gave them a sharp look. “No.” I looked around, and the Dusk was back in the shadows. It almost felt like they were insecure. 

The bird was singing over us, her voice filling the air with that sorrowful melody.

“Don’t you dare come closer,” I hissed at the Dusk, and then I collapsed, my legs giving out. I hit the floor hard. I heard something crack and pain shot through my wrist, sharp and blinding. I felt my temple hit the floor, then everything blurred, and— 

 

I didn’t know if I was dreaming or not, but the bird was sitting next to me, casting us in a gentle light and singing softly. Her song reminded me of spring meadows and my mother's voice and the sweet smell of fresh biscuits.

"You saved me?" I wanted to ask, but I didn’t know if a sound actually came out of my throat. The bird just tilted her head and kept singing. 

 

I felt hollow. Cold stone pressed against my body, and everything ached as I struggled to move. Was this real? Was I awake?

There were hurrying footsteps around me, and then a familiar voice broke through the fog:  “William? Will? Can you hear me?” Then louder, too loud for me: “Here, quickly! Someone get a glass of water!”

I opened my eyes, and there was light, and people coming, shadows shifting around us as their lanterns swung in their hands. 

“I’m here,” said Locke, kneeling beside me. I squinted against the light, trying to focus. “It’s all right.” Then he shouted over his shoulder, again, “Bring that damn water already!”

I wanted to reach out, to make him stop this noise, but my body felt heavy, unresponsive. 

“I’m here,” he repeated. His voice was calm and warm. “You’re safe now.”

His hands were touching me, my arms, my wrist, my head. I grunted as he touched my temple. “I can’t heal you here,” he said softly. “But you can drink something very soon, and then we will go back to the Sanctum and you can rest. Bear with me a little longer, all right? Just breathe.”

Was this real? Or just a cruel trick of the Dusk?

Then there was a cool touch of glass against my lips, and fingers held my head gently but firmly. “Drink,” said Locke, but I was already gulping, the first sip washing over my tongue like a soothing wave, revitalising my parched throat. Locke tilted the glass, and I swallowed, feeling the water wash over my whole body. “Good,” he murmured. “Just a bit more.”

I blinked up at Locke, my voice raspy. “How–” It hurt to speak. “How did you find me?”

Locke hesitated. “I put a tracking spell on you,” he said. “Months ago.”

Outrage flared within me, heavy but slow. My body felt like lead. I struggled to express my anger, my words coming out in a low, trembling whisper. “You did what?”

“Hush,” he said softly, his voice steady. “I know you’re upset, but you need to rest. You’re safe now.”

“But–”

“I know,” he said gently. Someone handed him a pair of boots, and he shifted a bit away to put them on my feet. I had no strength to resist. “I’m sorry for not telling you. But you can’t deny that it was necessary.”

“But–”

“And it stays ,” he said firmly. “Hush now. I’ve got you. We’re going home.”

Notes:

Thank you for being here!!!!!!
Every reaction makes me really happy.

Chapter 17: Talisman

Summary:

Just a long conversation.

It had been a long time since there were enough Councillors (and magicians in general) to need a separate infirmary in the Sanctum. Lately, if someone required longer treatment, they were healed in the public infirmary of the Citadel. But now, they had opened the windows and set up a bed just for me here, in this huge, dusty and creepy place.

The room felt like some relic forgotten here from a long-lost era. The walls were lined with dark wooden shelves, many of them bare, save for a few jars of dried herbs and tattered scrolls. Sunlight streamed through the high, arched windows, casting a warm glow that only seemed to highlight the dust swirling in the air. A heavy tapestry, faded and frayed at the edges, hung on one wall, depicting scenes of healing and comfort (though the methods pictured were so outdated, they didn’t seem comforting at all).

I didn’t know why I had to be here. Was I dangerous? Was I in danger? I felt strong spells surrounding the room, but I couldn’t tell what their purpose was.

Mostly, I only encountered nurses and healers who tended to my injuries, brought me food and water, and always insisted that I rest. Sol visited me a few times. He was the one who notified Locke of my absence. 

I met Locke only once. By then, I had slept and my stomach was full again. He stood by my bed while I sat awkwardly beneath the blankets. With an expressionless face, he listened as I recounted the dream, the bird, the darkness, the books. I told him everything—except for the Dusk. He showed no sign of knowing about it, and for some reason, I thought it was better to keep it that way.

I was weak, but otherwise I felt fine. I told the healers this, but they said I can’t leave yet. 

I had nightmares. I wanted to sleep in my own bed, where I wouldn’t have to worry about someone seeing me, waking up in the middle of the night, panting and – only at one occasion – in tears. 

Mostly I just lay there, staring at the ceiling. 

By the third morning, I was completely fed up.

“I’m perfectly fine,” I insisted to the healer who brought breakfast and murmured spells over me. “I’m not staying here any longer.”

“You cannot leave without Councillor Locke’s permission,” he said flatly, raising my wrist up and studying it with a thoughtful expression. 

“I’m alright, aren’t I?” I pressed.

“Physically, perhaps,” he murmured, letting go of my wrist and starting to weave a few more spells over me.

“What are you doing?” 

“Checking your magic.”

“My magic is fine.” It really was, since we had left that damned place.  

“Yes,” he nodded a bit later, letting the spell go. “It is.”

“Then I’m leaving,” I announced. 

He looked at me for a moment, then sighed softly. 

“You have to talk to your master.”

“Alright,” I said brightly, tossing my blanket aside and reaching for my boots. 

“Go straight to Councillor Locke. I believe he is in his office.”

“Of course,” I replied, not really paying attention as I pulled on my boots. He sighed but didn’t stop me.

I did not want to talk to Locke. Actually, over the past few days, I had dreaded facing Locke almost as much as I dreaded thinking about the Dusk. 

But now here I was, standing in front of his office, still a bit weak, panting from the stairs I had to climb. I waited for my breathing to become even – but my heart was still pounding as I raised a hand and knocked on the door. 

He did not call out, but opened the door himself. 

I took a step back, just to put some distance between us. His expression was unreadable. I bit into my lip. 

“William,” he said, his voice low and steady. He did not move. He did not say anything else.

“Can I–” My voice was a bit hoarse. “Can we talk?” I felt exposed, as if he could see right through me. 

“Have the healers released you?”

“Yes,” I replied, then added, “Not…exactly. They said I should talk to you.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, but then he nodded, and stepped aside to let me in. “Come. Sit.”

I perched on the edge of the chair. He did not sit down, but walked over to his desk, leaning back against it, arms crossed. He was disturbingly close; I had to raise my head if I wanted to look him in the face (but I didn’t really want to).

“Talk,” he said, sharp.

I hesitated, searching for the right words. I was looking down, wringing my hands in my lap. “I–” I took a deep breath. Get yourself together. “I don’t know where to start.”

His gaze remained fixed on me, silent. 

“It’s just–”

I glanced up. He only raised an eyebrow. 

“It’s just… So, I–”

He regarded me with a silent, expectant look.

“I– Well, I– You know what, this was a mistake, we don’t need to talk.” I started to get up. “I’m going–” 

Locke leaned forward, placed a firm hand on my shoulder, and effortlessly pushed me back into the chair.

“No,” he said, his voice calm but unyielding. “You are not leaving.”

“But I don’t know what to say!” I burst out.

“You wanted to have this conversation,” he said simply.

“I– I wanted to– Fuck , I wanted to apologise,” I finally said.

He gave me an incredulous look. “You wanted to apologise,” he repeated flatly.

“Yeah…” The heel of my boot tapped softly against the leg of the chair. “Before I– before this happened.” This conversation was going exactly how I imagined it would – terribly . 

“Well, you didn’t,” he snapped, leaning forward. “Instead, you vanished for two days. More than two days, actually.”

I flinched, swallowing hard. “Well yes, but I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

Locke scoffed, his expression hardening. I glanced around the room, just so I wouldn't have to look at him. “Didn’t mean for it to happen?” he snapped. One of his hands slapped the side of the table. “I was searching for you! Half the Sanctum was searching for you! For all we knew, you were dead.”

I took a deep breath. “Yeah, I know, but–”

He cut me off.

“Let me remind you,” he hissed, “that you even had the nerve to complain about my tracking spell when we found you. Barely conscious. As if my spell wasn't the only thing that saved you.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but he didn’t wait for me to find the right words. (And his icy stare made it hard to find them.)

“A few more days, William,” he continued, his voice lower now but just as biting, “and we would have been searching for your corpse.”

“Yeah, but–”

“No,” he interrupted, his voice rising. “Let me correct myself. Without my tracking spell, we never would have found you. Not when you somehow ended up in a library that’s been lost for centuries.”

“Alright,” I exclaimed, rolling my eyes. “Thank you. I am profoundly, eternally grateful. Thank you for tracking me down and saving me from imminent doom. I really–” I shut my mouth quickly when I saw his gaze darken further.

“This is really how you want this conversation going?” he asked quietly.

Well, maybe it would be easier.

“No,” I admitted with a small sigh.

“Good,” he nodded, then uncrossed his arms and went to sit down behind his desk. I felt my muscles relax a bit, with a desk being between us. “You have told me what happened, but there are several other details we must talk about. We can discuss the consequences of your behaviour later.”

My mouth went dry. “What kind of–”

“We will get to that,” he waved my question away. “Right now, I’m more concerned about your magic. Should I expect you to suddenly disappear, right now, while we are talking?”

“It only ever happened in my dreams before,” I shrugged.

His eyes widened. Oh shit .

“It only ever happened in your dreams?” He repeated, his voice low and too smooth. 

“Well, yes…”

“So this has happened to you before.” 

“I mean only a few times, and never to a place like this!” I insisted.

“So, you’ve casually transported yourself in your sleep a few times, but luckily those places weren’t buried under centuries of enchantments and half a mile of earth? You–”

“Half a–?” 

“Let me finish. These things just happen to you, and you never thought to mention it to someone? Maybe to the person who's constantly working to find a way to contain your magic? Didn't that seem important? Or maybe just interesting enough to mention? Hm?”

“I thought I… I thought I would get a handle on it.”

“Clearly, you haven't,” he sighed, shaking his head wearily. “Do you have any idea how dangerous this is? Do you realise how much danger you were in?”

“I do,” I nodded, my gaze dropping to his dark blue carpet as I swallowed hard. Of course I do. “You make it sound like it was my fault.”

He took a deep breath as if he was about to say something, angry, but then it just turned into a weary sigh. “I was worried.”

“What was that place?” I asked, the question having bothered me for days (and it was much easier to ask than to talk about the dangers I was in. Or his worry. That was total nonsense.)

“Well,” he said, tilting his head,” it seems you happened to stumble upon the Lost Library.”

“The Lost Library?” I echoed, disbelieving.

“Yes,” he nodded.

“But that…that’s supposed to be…lost.”

“I am aware of the meaning of the word,” he arched an eyebrow. 

I averted my eyes. “I thought it’s just a myth.”

“I think everyone did,” he sighed. “But the more pressing questions are why and how exactly did you find it.”

“I don’t know.” 

This conversation is not really going anywhere.

He must have thought the same, because he sighed, leaning back in his chair.

“You realise that you cannot continue like this? Having dreams that might transport you to the farthest end of the world? This is something that should not be possible. This is not how magic works.”

“I know,” I said, looking down at my hands. “What happens to the Library now?” Is asked, hoping to shift the conversation to something less personal.

“Councillor Aman is currently examining the building with a small team of magicians. If they deem it safe, the inspection and organisation of the collection can begin.”

“What kind of books might be there?” 

Locke’s expression darkened, but he didn’t immediately dismiss the question. “Books that haven’t seen the light of day for centuries. Volumes containing magic and knowledge from a time before the Council’s regulations, when spells were far less controlled. It’s likely there are treatises on forgotten techniques, records of practices that no longer exist. Some of it could be invaluable.”

“Invaluable?” I echoed.

He didn’t seem eager to indulge me but finally relented with a sigh. “Like a look into the past of magic. The Council will study it, catalogue it. Those books could represent a world long gone, a time when sorcery was untamed, experimental. But that doesn’t mean it’s something to be explored lightly. If we start playing with them, the consequences could be disastrous.”

“Disastrous?” I repeated in awe.

His eyes narrowed. “You manage to say “disastrous” as if it's something wonderful. Yes, disastrous. Magic has evolved for a reason. We have left certain practices behind because they were dangerous, uncontrollable. We will preserve the library, learn what we can from it, but it’s not a playground for idle curiosity,” he said strictly.

“Can I go back?” The question slipped out before I could stop myself. 

“Absolutely not.”

“But wouldn’t it be interesting to–” 

“Your interest in it is irrelevant. The Council will decide about the fate of the books.”

“Well, you are on the Council,” I pointed out.

He raised an eyebrow, giving me a tired look. “I’m on the Council because I understand the consequences of magic. This is not open for debate.”

There was a moment of silence. 

Why would I even want to go back? 

The endless shelves, the forgotten magic in the books, the chance to explore something no one had seen in centuries. The most extraordinary library in the world!

But the Dusk–

I nodded, trying not to think about the Dusk. Not about the darkness, the whispering silence, as black shapes crept closer to me, touching–

I shivered, instinctively folding my hands tighter in my lap as if to shield myself from the chilling thoughts.

Locke studied me, his gaze revealing that he sensed something was off but he didn’t comment. Instead, he leaned forward and pulled out a small box from his desk, holding it out to me. I had to stand to reach it.

“I know you won’t like it,” he said, and I furrowed my brows as I sat back down and opened the box. Inside was a simple leather cord with a black pendant—small, flat, and unpolished. No runes, no signs of magic, yet I felt something strange as I hovered my finger over it.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It’s a magic-suppressing talisman,” he explained, watching me closely. “I need you to wear it.”

I looked up at him, then back at the talisman.  “You said we have to try something like this if I can’t learn to control my magic,” I said slowly. “But I was trying. I– really…”

Locke regarded me for a moment, and I could see the conflict in his eyes. “I want to believe you have been trying, but sometimes it feels like you are more interested in testing boundaries than mastering your magic.”

Great, here we go again. “But–”

“But,” he interrupted, his tone steady, “this is not a punishment. What happened to you in the Lost Library cannot happen again. You can’t just misplace yourself in your dreams.”

I grimaced, looking down at the little pendant, unsure. 

“It’s not a punishment,” he repeated. “It is within your power to take it on or off. Although...” His gaze made me shift in my seat. “If something like this were to happen again because you chose not to wear the pendant, and you survive it, I will ensure that you wish you had died.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I murmured, taking the pendant by the string and raising it up to look at it. “I’m sure you’ll be terrifying.”

Why did I even say this? He is terrifying.

He gave me an unimpressed look. “Would you like to go back to that cell downstairs?”

A moment of stillness followed his words. Only the pendant swayed a little as I held it up by the cord.

Darkness. Silence. Alone. 

“No.”

His gaze seemed like he understood. “I thought so,” he nodded, and his voice was gentler now. “I believe this is the safest way to protect you. I considered different methods, you know. There are magical wards that could keep you in your bed while sleeping, for example.”

“That doesn’t sound that bad,” I noted.

“True,” he mused. “But we have no idea how you magic yourself into places in your dream. If that magic is too strong, you could tear your mind away, while your body remains in your bed, under the influence of the wards.”

“Okay, these wards sound really crappy.”

“Do they now? I thought so, too. Potions would have side-effects. Magical shackles could be effective, but I’m not sure if you would like to sleep shackled to your bed.”

I glared at him. “No, I wouldn’t.”

“This talisman is the best way to keep you safe with the least amount of setbacks. Try it on, please.”

I glanced at his face, hard and unyielding, and reluctantly raised the cord over my head. The pendant slipped over my shirt. Locke was watching me closely.

“Do you feel anything?”

I tried to concentrate, but there was nothing. “No.”

“Good. Conjure a light sphere, please.”

I didn’t even look away from him, just raised a hand, made a lazy swirl, and the sphere was already floating above our heads, casting a strong, warm light. 

“Good,” he repeated.

“Good?” I asked. 

“Good. It is only supposed to block larger magical energies. Now try to empty this room. All of it, at once.”

I raised a surprised eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“Try it.”

I shrugged, murmured a spell, and waved my hand. 

Nothing happened, except an unpleasant pull in the middle of my chest. I clutched a hand there. It wasn’t painful, but really strange and uncomfortable. I felt a little queasy.

“Try again,” said Locke, unfazed. “Slower this time. Weave it.”

I narrowed my eyes but nodded, took a deep breath and sat up straighter on the chair. I raised both hands, and went through all the intricate steps of the spellweaving, my finger drawing complicated patterns in the air. 

Only one thing was emptied from the room: Locke’s chair. 

“Oh, shit, shit,” I gasped, jumping halfway to my feet and clapping my hands over my mouth. “I’m sorry!”

Locke must have used some quick spell to prevent himself from hitting the ground, because he seemed totally undisturbed while standing up. He dusted off his coat with a slow movement.

“Well, interesting,” With a wave of his hand, another chair slid across the room. He sat down smoothly. “Seems your magic can still slip a bit through the talisman.”

“What does that mean? I won’t be able to do bigger spells?”

“Not all at once, no. You could probably empty the room piece by piece, but it should prevent any major accidents.”

“Great,” I muttered. “Next time I’ll transport just my left ear in my sleep.”

He raised an eyebrow, but otherwise did not react. 

“Why couldn’t I use magic in that library?” I asked eventually.

He sighed, leaning a bit forward and resting his elbows on the desk. 

“I don’t know.”

I blinked at him, taken aback. I was used to Locke knowing everything, or at least acting like he did.

“The Council is investigating this, too,” he added. “It’s different from any way we know to block magic. When someone enters a cell here in the Sanctum or for example wears Kowlanow bands, their magic is simply blocked . But in that library, it was as if... there was simply no magic at all.”

“That’s not possible,” I replied, shaking my head.

“No one believed it until now,” he said thoughtfully.

We fell silent for a time, again. This silence was heavy and awkward. I wanted to ask things. Wanted to tell things. Wanted to keep things to myself. 

 “So…” I started, when the silence started to feel unbearable (probably no more than half a minute had passed). “What happens now?”

Locke narrowed his eyes. “That depends on you.”

I swallowed hard, unsure. “What do you mean?”

“If you’re willing to take responsibility for your actions, we keep studying and practising to control your power. Then the talisman can come off, eventually. But if you continue to behave recklessly, if you think you can keep pushing boundaries without consequence, then yes, there will be severe repercussions.”

How did this conversation turn to this again?

I gulped. 

“I– I really wanted to apologise” I said, my voice smaller than I intended. I stared down at my hands. “I planned what I was gonna say and everything. I wanted to apologise and ask you to continue teaching me.” I took a deep breath, exhaling shakily. I did not dare to look up. “I was an idiot for saying those things.”

“Right,” he nodded solemnly. His face seemed understanding, and for a moment, I felt the tension ease in my chest. Then he added, “But apologies are meaningless without action. You need to show me you’re willing to change.”

Asshole .

“I didn’t ask for this shitty power!” I exclaimed, throwing my hands in the air. “I want just some normal power like everyone else. I have no idea what’s even happening around me, and–”

I couldn’t say anything more. I closed my mouth, afraid that if I kept talking, I would say everything out loud. 

Locke’s expression didn’t change. “No one chooses the path they’re given, William. But you can choose how to handle it. Throwing a tantrum won’t help.”

“You are so wise today,” I murmured.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair – a gesture I had hardly ever seen him do before. “Denying your power won’t make it go away. I expect more from you.”

“Hmpf,” I said, rolling my eyes.

He raised an eyebrow. I bet he was raising that half an eyebrow at least as often as I was rolling my eyes. If not more often.

We sat in silence a bit more. 

“Did you see that bird?” I asked suddenly. I thought about her often. I still heard her song in my dreams.

“The Remembrance Bird? Yes, we managed to cage it.”

“You what ?”

“It’s here in the Sanctum. Councillor Verdance is examining it with her colleagues.”

“ Examining ?” I echoed in disbelief. “She saved my life!”

He furrowed his brows. “How did the bird save your life?”

She chased the Dusk away. “Sorry,” I grunted. “I forgot; it was only your precious tracking spell that saved my life.”

“Answer my question.”

“She was– she was glowing. There wasn’t any light, and I could not use magic. But she was glowing.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, they always had special abilities.”

“What are they ?”

“Remembrance Birds. They were really unique magical beings… but they were thought to be extinct. Their name comes from their ability to enact memories in people. But all of them had disappeared, centuries ago.”

“But she was there in that library.”

“That library also had disappeared centuries ago,” he pointed out.

“And she was there all the time?”

“Most likely,” he nodded thoughtfully. “They have eternal life.”

“Eternal life?” I repeated. “Then how could they become extinct?”

At this, Locke seemed less confident than he usually was, and for a moment, I thought he was going to refuse to answer me. “Well… there are rumours,” he began, hesitating before continuing. “That they were likely used in the creation of the Dusk.”

“Oh.” I tried to force myself to act nonchalant. “What do you mean?”

“The Remembrance Birds have the ability to evoke memories, whether good or bad. The Dusk, on the other hand… the Dusk sees your memories, amplifies and twists them and uses them to evoke your greatest fears. It feeds on them.”

I gulped, and restrained myself from saying “yeah, I know”. 

“What do you mean examining her?” I asked. “Are they hurting her?”

“Prona Verdance is the Councillor of Flora and Fauna. I can assure you that neither she nor any of her colleagues are hurting a Remembrance Bird.”

“But they keep her in a cage?”

“Well, as long as they are examining it, yes.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Well, it’s necessary. Which reminds me: you are not allowed to leave the Sanctum on your own.”

I blinked. “We were talking about a bird in a cage, which reminds you of me ?” I did his favourite facial expression and raised an eyebrow. “You could put a little sign next to me, saying ‘Untrained magician, do not feed.’ By the way, I was never allowed to leave the Sanctum for as long as I’ve been here.”

“You might act as if it’s something funny. But this time it’s not just me forbidding you from leaving. You are under direct orders issued from the Council, and the penalty for disobeying them is severe.”

“Sounds dramatic,” I muttered.

He narrowed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Then just waved a hand dismissively. 

“Keep your mouth shut. I hope you realise that you are not allowed in the Sanctum’s library,” he said, his tone serious. I made a pained face. “This isn’t because of what happened in the Lost Library, I know that was unfortunately outside your control. This is about your behaviour the morning before you disappeared.”

I bit my lip, turning my gaze away.

“Your actions showed an absolute lack of respect,” he went on, “not only for my time, but for the rules that are in place for your safety.” 

I opened my mouth to respond, but the stern look in his eyes silenced me.

“I will not tolerate insubordination,” he said firmly. “If you expect to continue your education under my guidance, you must understand that this kind of behaviour is unacceptable.”

“I know, but–”

“I told you to keep your mouth shut.” He gave me a steely look. “I am not obliged to put up with your misbehaviour. You are my apprentice, and I expect you to act as such. If you want to learn, you must demonstrate commitment, respect, and a willingness to follow the rules.”

“But I do–”

“If you cannot show the maturity required to handle your abilities, you will–”

“You talk about maturity, but you always treat me like a child!” I shot back, my voice rising despite my better judgement.

Locke’s expression didn’t waver, but something in his eyes darkened, and he leaned back in his chair, casually folding his hands on his chest. The calmness in his posture made it worse—far worse than if he’d stood and shouted. His voice, low and sharp as a knife, cut through the tension. “If I truly saw you as a child, I would put you over my knee and spank you right here and now.”

A sudden jolt of shock. “You– what? ” I felt heat rushing to my face. I tried to swallow, but my mouth had gone dry. 

He didn’t break eye contact, his gaze unyielding. “You heard me.”

“But, you– I– What the–”

“Yes?” he raised an eyebrow, waiting for me to finish what I was trying to say, infuriatingly calm.

“I’m not a child,” I finally declared, though my voice lacked the conviction I’d hoped for.

“Right,” he nodded. Then a small smirk appeared in the corner of his mouth. “ I'm not in favour of hitting children, anyway. On the other hand, adults who act like defiant little brats…”

He left the end of the sentence hanging in the air. 

I gulped. My muscles were tense. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t.

“Good,” he nodded, though I didn’t say anything. Still, he seemed satisfied. “Today and tomorrow, you are going to rest,” he continued, his voice calm but commanding. “Then, the day after tomorrow, I will expect you in the morning for training. If you’re late again, don’t bother showing up at all.”

I swallowed hard, nodding stiffly. 

“Tell me if you understand.”

“I do.”

“Good.”

There was a moment of silence. I shifted uncomfortably. Is he finished? Am I dismissed? I was sure I couldn’t just stand up and leave at my convenience. He was looking at me with a thoughtful gaze.

“You really plan on leaving the tracking spell on me?” I asked after some time spent in the uneasy silence.

“Yes.”

“But–”

“I said yes.”

“But–”

“There will be no arguments about this.”

I glared at him for a moment. “Remember that time when you magicked me silent because I kept cutting into your words?”

He lifted his gaze at me slowly. “I do remember,” he said with a cold chuckle. “Do you think I might have overreacted back then? Perhaps. But keep pushing me, and I won’t hesitate to use that spell again.”

I stared at him, then huffed, turning away. “Can I go now?”

He tilted his head to the side, looking over me from head to toe. I shifted under his gaze, uncomfortable with the attention.

“What?” I asked, impatient.

He didn’t respond immediately, just kept watching me. “You just left the infirmary,” he said finally, his voice softer but still carrying that underlying authority. “Are you sure you are all right?”

“I felt better before this conversation,” I muttered, folding my arms across my chest.

Locke raised an eyebrow but didn’t take the bait. “Good. Keep wearing the talisman. You are dismissed.”

 

Chapter 18: Beneath the Surface

The storeroom for old artefacts was dimly lit, the shelves packed from floor to ceiling with dusty, half-forgotten relics. Locke had set up a small workspace near the back, where he was sorting through items that hadn’t seen daylight in who knows how many decades. Maybe centuries. The air was stale, and the faint scent of rust and old wood hung around us.

I  sat at the table with a massive ledger in front of me, listening as Locke droned on about a candlestick that seemed entirely ordinary and insignificant to me. I dutifully jotted down what he dictated, trying to stifle my yawns. We had been doing this for hours. My stomach growled, the chair was uncomfortable, and my fingers were cold from the cool storage room, aching from all the writing.

I might have made a remark about how hard it was to read his handwriting. But it was ridiculous how ugly it actually was: Locke, the always annoyingly perfect and flawless Locke, had worse handwriting than the scratching of a drunken cat. (I didn’t say it to him quite like that. I want to live. ) In any case, his eyes narrowed, and he promptly decided I should handle all the writing by myself. (Unlike him, I knew how to write neatly. The monks made me copy whole books .)

“Do you even know what half of these things do?” I asked, shaking out my stiff right hand to relieve some of the tension. “Or are you just making this up?”

Locke shot me a quick, unimpressed look but continued with his dictation as if I hadn’t spoken. “The design features a tapered base, flaring slightly towards the middle before narrowing into a cylindrical shaft. Height: six inches. Width at the base: three inches. Weight: approximately one pound. Condition: minor tarnishing observed, particularly around the base and the rim, which may indicate exposure to air and moisture over time…”

I no longer asked why we weren’t using magic to record all this information or why we needed to note down this endless stream of insignificant details. I’d given up on questioning whether this wretched candlestick had any magical properties at all. For all I knew, someone could have set it down here a hundred years ago and forgotten about it. Locke would probably insist on logging a discarded handkerchief if we found one in a dusty corner. I didn’t bother asking questions anymore; I just grumbled to myself as I wrote down everything he listed.

Two full pages about a candlestick. 

Two. Full. Pages.

I closed my eyes briefly when Locke turned away. Was he going for another artefact? How many artefacts could be here? Hundreds? Thousands ? And how many other storage rooms? 

Am I going to spend my whole life recording the world’s most boring artefacts?

I felt almost like crying when he returned with a teaspoon in his hand. 

“Don't suffer so spectacularly,” he said. “We haven't even been at this for two hours.”

“That’s not true. We have been here for ages. At least four hours. But I think six or seven is more likely.”

He raised an eyebrow, pulled out his pocket watch, shot it an amused look then showed me the clock’s face.

He was right.

“It’s broken,” I muttered. 

“It is not. Turn the page. Entry 469, a silver teaspoon, origin unknown…”

I groaned, rolling my eyes as I picked up my quill again.

Entry 470: Enchanted Hourglass. Entry 471: Unlabeled Bottle. Entry 472: Pigeon Feather Quill. Entry 473: Rune-etched Stone. Entry 474: Singing Bowl.

“No,” I interrupted, as he began to dictate Entry 475: Wooden Block. “I can’t do this any longer.”

“Stop whining. Two more artefacts, and we will take a short break.”

“It’s not a break I need, but to never set foot in this storeroom again.” I tossed the quill aside and crossed my arms. 

He shot me a sidelong glance, clearly unimpressed. “Perhaps if you paid attention to the details, you might find that even the most mundane items can have fascinating stories.”

“Stories?” I echoed. “What’s the story behind a wooden block? ‘Once upon a time, a tree grew tall and proud, then met a woodcutter’s axe and was forever turned into an incredibly unexciting paperweight?’”

“Pick up your quill.”

“‘And so it lies here, forgotten and unloved, dreaming of the forest it once called home’” I murmured, looking morosely at the little wooden block. 

He raised an eyebrow, then, without warning, tossed the block toward me. I caught it in the air with both hands – and instantly went still. 

The moment it touched my palms, a freezing sensation gripped my body. I couldn't move. I couldn’t breathe . 

My eyes were locked on my hands, holding the wooden block. I couldn’t turn my gaze away. I couldn’t even twitch a finger – though I didn’t really want to, as my entire focus was narrowed to the sharp, painful realisation that I was unable to breathe . My lungs tried to expands, the muscles in my chest tried to squeeze some air in, but they just couldn’t – they couldn’t even struggle for air, couldn’t even tremble from the effort–

It was probably just a few seconds, but in this suffocating stillness it seemed like hours. Locke stepped closer, and with the ease of someone absolutely unaffected, pried the wooden block from my hands. 

I doubled over, gasping for air.

“What the hell was that?!” I wheezed, glancing at the now innocuous-looking wooden block resting in Locke’s palm.

Locke regarded me with a mix of amusement and something darker. “A little lesson in respect, perhaps?”

“A lesson?!” I shot him an incredulous look. “I thought I was going to die!”

He shrugged, unbothered. “You were in no real danger.”

“Seriously?” I rubbed my face, trying to steady my breathing. “What’s this thing even doing here? I thought this storeroom was for the boring and useless artefacts, not for objects designed to execute people!”

Locke’s expression grew more serious. “This wooden block was originally created as an immovable token, used for punishment. It was meant to freeze someone in place for reflection. I guess it was made rather poorly, and over time, the magic deteriorated and became much stronger than intended. That’s why we are cataloguing everything again— to prevent accidents like this.”

I narrowed my eyes. “It wasn’t an accident if you knew this was gonna happen,” I murmured. “And how is it that you can hold it without being affected?”

“Maybe it only works on whining little brats like you,” he said with a dry smirk. 

“Very funny,” I rolled my eyes.

“I feel its power too,” he said, relenting slightly. “But I knew it would be much stronger on you—and I was right.”

“But how is–”

“Pick up your quill,” he interrupted smoothly. “Entry 475: Wooden Block. If you want to understand more, you'll find your answers in the process of cataloguing. Now, write.”

I clenched my jaw, but there was no point in arguing—I picked up the quill with a deep sigh.

 

I went to sleep early that night.

I haven't  often left the Sanctum since I have been here, but it never bothered me much until now. There were always things to do, and Locke expected me to read long books or memorise rituals consisting of dozens of steps from one day to the next. Locke, to be fair, hadn’t changed—but now he left me much more free time than before. I had almost caught up with the other apprentices in my studies. 

Ever since the talisman was around my neck, I didn’t have to waste my time fixing the accidents caused by my uncontrolled magic.

I couldn’t spend late evenings exploring the library's thousand exciting books. 

So I found myself spending more and more time gazing out of my room’s window, which overlooked the magical garden between the Sanctum and the Citadel—I wasn't even allowed to go out there. I pondered more about the bustling city around us. About the forest that surrounded the monastery. About the past–

I went to sleep early every day, but I was constantly tired. I kept having dreams of the Dusk. Not about the cold and the darkness of the Lost Library, nor the touch of the Dusk on my skin, nor the images that they stirred deep within my mind... no. These dreams were filled with Dusk Knights. There was an entire army of them, more solid and powerful than the other Dusk creatures. Their long, black swords, dripping with poison, hung at their sides. And they followed me wherever I went, fulfilling all my commands. 

I think Locke suspected that I had nightmares. When he asked about them, I told him that the darkness in the Lost Library was scary. I could see that he wanted to appear understanding, but he also doubted that I was telling the truth.

I lay long in bed, every night, before finally falling asleep. 

 

I realised a whole new reason for my hatred toward the morning training – and it was deeply unsettling. 

Sure, I hated dragging myself out of bed before dawn. I hated the constant ache in my muscles from those endless strengthening positions. I did not enjoy the bruises blooming on my skin after Locke repeatedly knocked me into the dirt with his practice sword.

But the worst was Locke himself .

Not the stern gaze with which he looked me up and down when I no longer had the strength to lift my arm again. Not the same lessons on discipline and control, which he had repeated so many times that I could have recited them in my sleep. Not even the vulnerability as he controlled all my muscles and even my breathing during the most complex exercises – "feel your ribcage expand as you inhale, and let the muscles around your shoulder blades stretch..." Ugh. But no.

The worst part was that no matter how hard I tried to show the opposite, I wanted to please him.

I craved his damn approval.

And it also did not help that I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

It was infuriating. It made my skin itch. 

I mean, I always knew Locke was good-looking. That was pretty much my first thought when we met, back when he caught me trying to steal that book. And over the months since, with varying intensity, I kept thinking about this (except the parts when he made my life miserable – so not that much, after all). How forceful he was. How confident. How strong. And–

What it was about those dark eyes, now narrowing with disdain, that I found so appealing, I had no idea. 

He is the one who makes my life so miserable right now. 

“Where is your mind?” Locke snapped, breaking me out of my thoughts as my practice sword hit the ground with a heavy thud.

On you? On how annoyingly perfect you are. Just trying to decide whether I want to hate you or admire you or be like you or get–

“Sorry,” I muttered, bending down to grab the sword. 

I barely straightened up before Locke was attacking again. His strikes were as precise and relentless as ever, driving me back a few steps. “Focus on the drill,” he said.

“I am focusing,” I grumbled. “But not everyone can be as perfect as you.”

Locke raised an eyebrow at my words, clearly unimpressed. He didn’t respond immediately, just stepped in for another attack. His blade was swift and precise, and I barely managed to parry. I was panting, sweating in the cold morning under my shirt, and yet he looked completely unruffled—like he could do this all day.

“You think I’m perfect?” he asked, his voice maddeningly calm, as if we weren’t in the middle of a fight where he was currently kicking my ass.

“Perfectly annoying,” I muttered under my breath, dodging quite ungracefully under his sword. “Maybe you should try fighting me blindfolded?” I straightened up and skipped sideways. “You know, even the odds a little? Or with one arm behind your back?” I grunted as our blades met, and tried desperately to steer my thoughts anywhere but the way his eyes darkened when he focused on me. 

Locke drew his sword back, but just for a moment, then it came down even harder, forcing me to retreat several steps. “You could be improving,” he said smoothly, knocking my next strike aside with irritating ease. “But you’re distracted.”

“I’m not distracted,” I said, raising my sword and trying to ignore the way my arm ached with the effort. 

He just gave me a look. “I told you many times that you should never lie to me.”

“It’s not a lie!” I protested, spinning away. “But why did you even think that training before dawn is a good idea? Do you even sleep?”

“Get in position,” he said simply. 

I stepped further away. “We could be sleeping right now,” I sighed, lowering my sword. “Or eat breakfast. Maybe pastries? Or something savoury, like eggs. I could eat like four plates of omelettes right now.”

Locke didn’t bother waiting for me to get my guard back up. He advanced on me swiftly, his sword cutting through the air with precision. I barely managed to block the first strike, the force of it making my arms tremble.

His eyes narrowed, unamused. “Your form is sloppy,” he said, his tone cool as we circled each other. “You are not concentrating.”

“I am concentrating,” I mumbled. He twisted his sword lazily while I backed away, struggling to keep my breathing steady.

“You might be concentrating on breakfast,” he said. His voice was sharper now. “Please try focusing on your sword.”

“With all the magic we have, aren’t the swords kind of, you know, obsolete?” I twisted away, before he could push me into a corner. “Like do the swords ever get jealous? Sitting in a corner while we’re all over here casting spells like it’s the best thing ever? I bet swords are full of resentment.”

“We don’t use magic for fighting,” he said.

“Oh, but we can use swords to maim or kill each other?” I raised an eyebrow.

His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t respond.

I looked down at the ground. “It must suck being the least useful weapon around. I feel bad for them.”

Locke’s next strike knocked my sword clean out of my hand. Again. I winced, rubbing my wrist where the impact had jarred through my bones.

“I think my arms are going to fall off,” I muttered, bending down to retrieve the sword for what felt like the hundredth time that morning. “I know you could just keep doing this forever, but I’m seriously not sure I’ll survive the next five minutes.”

“Position,” he commanded. 

I sighed dramatically, stepping back into a basic stance. “You know, I read somewhere that overexertion can cause permanent damage.” I skipped away, trying to sound cheerful. “Like, if I suddenly collapse one day, it’s on you. You’ll have to explain to everyone why your apprentice spontaneously combusted during training.”

Locke didn’t answer, just swept low with his sword, forcing me to dodge to the side. Our blades clashed again, and for one brief moment, I actually held him off. But then, with a subtle twist of his wrist, he knocked me back so hard I nearly fell. I stumbled, catching myself just in time.

“You were saying?” he asked, almost amused.

I groaned, rolling my eyes. “I was saying that you’re way into this whole ‘bossing me around’ thing. Does this excite you or something?” 

With a swift, practised motion, Locke disarmed me again. My sword clattered to the ground before I could even register what had happened. He was right in front of me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him. His hand firmly gripped my collar, holding me in place. I barely had a second to breathe before I felt the sharp edge of his wooden sword hovering just beneath my chin. His eyes locked onto mine, dark and unwavering, and for a moment, I felt completely trapped. I couldn’t pull away.

“If you spent half as much energy fighting as you do talking nonsense,” Locke said, his voice low and dangerous, “you could be a decent swordsman. Maybe you should try keeping your mouth shut for once.”

I blinked, catching my breath—and without thinking, my gaze flicked downward , before flying back to his face. “Or maybe I could put it to better use elsewhere?”

There was a moment of stillness. I could hear nothing but the faint sound of my own breathing.

Locke’s grip tightened just a fraction. For a split second, something unreadable flickered across his face. Then, in a voice so low it sent a chill down my spine, he said, “Careful.” He leaned closer, his eyes still locked onto mine, and added, “I could make you wish you had never opened that mouth of yours.” The edge of his sword pressed just a little more against my throat, his next words almost a whisper. “It won’t be as pleasant as you think... but it would be unforgettable.”

My heart pounded in my chest, and I was suddenly very aware of just how close we were, of the heat of his body against mine. And then, just like that, Locke’s grip loosened, his sword lowered, and the dangerous gleam in his eyes vanished as quickly as it had come.

He stepped back, his expression now cold and dismissive. “Pick up your sword and get back in position. Try to focus long enough to finish a single drill. Now. Move.”

I should have said something witty, but I just picked up my sword.

I’m not scared of him. Really. But why the hell is my heart still pounding like that?

I got into a defensive stance, and braced myself for his attack. 

 

Chapter 19: Calming Draught

Summary:

Brewing and drinking a calming draught. Then feeling resentful.

Notes:

Happy reading!!! ^^

The practice chamber was cold, despite the crackling fire in the hearth. Locke was already seated at the long table, an empty cauldron in front of him. The flickering flames cast sharp shadows across his face, accentuating the hard lines of his cheekbones.

“No need to sit down yet,” he said, as I stepped towards the other chair. “You are going to brew Sylvara’s Calming Draught today. Get the ingredients from the cupboard.”

I hesitated, glancing from the cauldron to the rows of jars lined up on the shelves. “Wouldn’t it be easier if I had a book? You know, with the recipe?”

“No.”

I rolled my eyes, stepping to the cabinet. “What have you got against recipes? Why would it be a problem if I knew exactly what to do and how to do it?”

“I told you to memorise the recipe days ago.”

“And I did!” I knelt to sift through the lower shelves, muttering under my breath. “But in what situation would I need to brew an emergency calming draught, when I happen to have all the ingredients at hand but not a recipe? Who plans these hypothetical crises?”

Locke’s voice was firm, almost smug. “Given your history with uncontrollable magic, it would be wise to prepare.”

I took a deep breath, slamming a few jars of ingredients down on the table. “I’m wearing the talisman, remember?” I tugged at the chain around my neck, the familiar weight of it against my chest. “I haven’t had a single incident since I put this thing on.”

Locke’s eyes narrowed. “Do you plan on wearing it for the rest of your life?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow as he examined the ingredients I had placed on the table. He handed the chameleon leaf back to me wordlessly, and I felt myself blush a little, realising what a disaster it would be if I accidentally included it in the calming draught. Quickly, I put it back in the cupboard. “You are going to brew the potion now, and you are going to drink it tonight, before meditation,” he continued. 

“Great,” I grumbled, snatching up the mortar and pestle. “Nothing like brewing under pressure.” I caught a glimpse of his expression, sceptical and rigid. “Fine. Sorry.”

As I started to measure out the ingredients, I could feel Locke’s eyes on me. I cursed inwardly, knowing that the longer he stared, the worse my concentration would be. I wondered if he’d intervene if I did something catastrophic or just watch in silence as the potion exploded in my face.

I added the valerian root and began to crush the rose leaves, my mind drifting as I worked. I hadn’t memorised the exact measurements for the hops or whether the gossamer silk was meant to be added raw or melted. A growing knot of panic formed in my stomach. Gossamer silk, if used improperly, was really explosive. At best, it could explode in the cauldron; at worst, it could lead to a catastrophic failure after I'd drunk the brew. Then Locke could teach my shredded corpse a lesson about the dire consequences of not memorising a recipe.

I poured spring water into the cauldron, murmuring a few spells to enhance its properties. The liquid transformed into a calming blue colour, swirling gently as if it had a mind of its own. I sighed in relief, stealing a glance at Locke, who remained as impassive as ever.

“Can I ask you a question?” I asked suddenly.

“About the potion?” he replied.

“No,” I admitted. “About the… library.”

He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Do you really think this is the time for distractions?”

“I just really wanted to ask you about… about maybe letting me into the library again? I learned my lesson and everything, I promise.” His expression didn’t even change a bit. “So, could we just maybe talk about it…”

Locke’s gaze flicked to the cauldron. I followed it and froze—the potion was frothing dangerously near the rim.

“Oh, bloody—” I cursed, grabbing the ladle and stirring frantically to bring it under control.

“Focus,” Locke ordered, his voice low but firm.

I bit back a retort and returned my attention to the potion. The gossamer silk was next, and I hesitated, holding the delicate threads above the cauldron. Should it be raw? Melted? Locke’s silence was maddening. With a deep breath, I dropped the raw silk into the brew, watching as it dissolved, the potion shimmering in response.

Locke said nothing, his face as unreadable as ever. I took that as a good sign… hopefully .

I continued adding the ingredients – the rose petals, the coconut milk, the moonflower essence – stirring more carefully now, until the potion began to emit a faint, soothing fragrance. At least it smelled right. I tossed in the hops, though I had no idea if I was supposed to add them yet. The liquid darkened to a deeper shade of blue.

“It’s quite annoying,” I murmured without looking up, “That you are just looking at me with that judging face but not telling me if I do something wrong.”

Locke raised an eyebrow. “You should have memorised the steps. This is your responsibility, not mine.”

I stirred harder, frustrated. “You could at least tell me if I’m about to ruin it!”

His lips twitched. “Where’s the lesson in that?”

“You’d really make me drink this even if it’s wrong, wouldn’t you?”

Locke’s smile widened slightly. “Yes. Call it a rite of passage.”

“A rite of passage?” I huffed. “More like a death sentence.”

He leaned closer to the cauldron, inhaling the steam. “Is it done?”

I murmured a last spell, with a final stir, I stepped back and sighed, wiping my hands on a clean towel. “I think so?”

Locke took the ladle from me, stirring the potion with a careful, practised motion. He breathed in deeply, his expression inscrutable.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

I swallowed, still uncertain. “Maybe?”

Locke chuckled, setting the ladle aside. “Well, I think you have managed to brew a decent draught. Impressive, considering you spent half the time thinking about the library.” He paused, his tone softening slightly. “What did you want to ask?”

“Well, I…” I fidgeted with the jars, organising them into a neat line just to occupy my hands. “IYou know, I was wondering if maybe… you could let me back in? The library?”

“Because you’ve ‘learned your lesson and everything?’” His eyebrow lifted, repeating my earlier words. I felt my face heat up as I stared down at the table.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it that way. But I'm really sorry for what happened! I shouldn't have snuck in so many times. I know it was stupid. I shouldn't have abused your trust.”

“You shouldn't,” he agreed with a small nod. “But what exactly do you mean by ‘so many times?’”

I froze. Oh, shit. 

“Nothing,” I said too quickly. “Just a turn of phrase. It was only that night. Only one.”

His gaze hardened, the air growing thicker between us. “Don’t lie to me.”

“Sorry,” I sighed, my shoulders slumping.

“So,” he continued coolly, “you felt free to break my rules whenever it suited you?”

“I— that’s not how I thought of it.”

“When you broke my rules repeatedly, didn’t you think of it as breaking my rules repeatedly?”

“I—I didn’t really think of it as anything…”

“Exactly,” he nodded sharply. I sank lower in my chair. This was very much not how I wanted this conversation to go. “So why,” his voice dropped to a near whisper, “should I trust you after all this?”

“I don’t– I mean– Look, I really am sorry for everything. I– I know I messed up, and I shouldn’t have snuck in after you told me not to.” I was looking everywhere in the small study chamber except for him. “I should have respected your decision. I just…I just wanted to read. It was stupid, I know. I really regret my choices. But…just, please?”

My hands fumbled with the mortar, spinning it mindlessly. The weight of his silence pressed down on me. I dropped the pestle, and it clattered onto the floor.

“Hm,” Locke said at last, his voice low and flat. “You miss the library.”

“I really do,” I admitted, my voice sounding rather miserable as I emerged from under the table, carefully placing the pestle back in its place.

“I see,” Locke said, his expression unyielding. “And this is exactly why it’s an effective punishment. Denying you the library forces you to reflect on the consequences of your actions. Punishment isn’t about deprivation – it’s a tool for learning. It should make you think about why the rules exist in the first place.”

I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms. “Yeah, I know what the word punishment means.”

Locke’s eyes narrowed, his voice dropping a degree colder. “So, you’re shifting back to being impudent, now that you’ve realised I’m not going to give you what you want.”

I felt a flush creep up my neck. “That’s not—"

“That is exactly what you’re doing,” he interrupted. "You think getting sassy will make me change my mind?”

“I apologised!” I burst out, gesturing wildly. “I know I made a mistake! I said I won’t do it again, I’ll follow the rules—just—”

Locke raised a hand, cutting me off mid-sentence. “It doesn't work like that. You don't get a second chance just because you beg for one.”

“I'm not begging,” I shot back. “I’m just asking for–”

“Enough,” he cut me off again, his voice sharp. “Trust isn’t earned through apologies. It’s earned through actions. Consistent, disciplined actions.”

I swallowed hard, feeling a knot tighten in my chest. “But what should I do? I mean… how can I prove it? What do I need to do for you to let me back into the library?”

Locke studied me for a long moment, his eyes cold and unreadable. “You’re still thinking about shortcuts, William. There aren’t any. Do the work, follow the rules, and prove that you can be trusted. Only then will I consider lifting the ban.”

I looked at him grumpily, then rolled my eyes and crossed my arms. 

He sighed, standing up and gesturing at the mess on the table. “Clean this up. I’ll handle the potion.”

I stayed put. He ignored me, going to fetch a set of vials and methodically labelling each one. His calm, deliberate movements only made me angrier. There was a soft clink as he uncorked the first vial, and the steam from the potion swirled gently around him as he ladled the liquid with infuriating precision.

With a huff, I shoved my chair back and began tidying up. I capped the jars of ingredients, wiping down the workbench more aggressively than necessary. The tension between us crackled in the quiet room, the sound of glass tapping and the soft scrape of jars being moved the only noise.

Locke finished filling the last vial and set it down on the table with a soft clink. “You did well with the potion,” he said.I shot him a look, more annoyed than pleased by his faint praise. He raised an eyebrow but said nothing. “Now,” he added, his tone unyielding, “get some rest. Clear your mind. We’ll meet again later for meditation.”

“I don’t want to meditate,” I said, but of course he didn’t care. He just turned and left the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts, the mess of the brewing process, and the echo of his unyielding expectations.

 

I stared at the vial of Calming Draught in my hand, feeling the weight of Locke’s gaze pressing down on me. I really didn’t want to drink it. I’d managed to convince myself that it wasn’t going to kill me—Locke wouldn’t go that far, right?—but that didn’t make it any easier to swallow. My stomach churned with a mixture of nerves and anger.

I didn’t want to drink something that, if not turning me into a three headed caterpillar, will make me calm . 

“Drink it,” Locke’s voice cut through my thoughts..

I hesitated for one last second, trying to banish the picture of the three-headed caterpillar from my mind, my fingers twitching around the neck of the vial. Then I raised it, tipped back reluctantly and swallowed. The liquid was cool, sliding down my throat with a strange, soothing sensation. It didn’t taste bad—it was subtle, pleasant even—but that only made me more suspicious of it.

I glared at Locke as I lowered the empty vial.

“Sit,” he commanded. I made a show of being reluctant, but stepped to the middle of the room and sat, crossing my legs.

 

It was fucking good. He led me through the meditation, even though I knew the words myself for a long time now. My muscles were relaxed. I was focused on the runes. The runes were clean and nice and familiar. 

“I let the rhythm of my breathing guide me deeper into focus…”

I followed the words easily, effortlessly. The warmth spread through my chest, down to my stomach, into my arms and legs. Every breath felt slow, deliberate. My heartbeat matched the calm rhythm, a soft pulse that echoed through my body. I felt the tension melting away with every breath I took. Locke’s voice guided me, steady and firm. Almost kind. (And I was so deep down that the idea of Locke being kind didn’t seem absurd for once.) It was easy to trust him here.

“... I focus on the space around me, the subtle energy of the runes beneath me…”   

The runes were sharp in my awareness. Their presence hummed against my skin, a quiet energy that made everything feel right. It was like they were alive, breathing with me, a soft current of magic that moved in synchron with my body. Everything felt right. Balanced. I could feel the world around me without effort—feel the space and the energy it held, the way it moved through the room, the air, the earth.

I wasn’t fighting anything. Locke's voice was all around me, the words of the meditation welcoming, reliable. 

“...I am holding this state. I let it deepen. I am in control. I am focused…”

Focused. In control. Magic wrapped around me, soft, feather-like, powerful, sweeping, consuming. So fucking perfect. The magic was a part of me, an extension of my breath, my heart, my will. There was no need to force it, no need to fear it. The power was there, waiting, obedient, trusting. For the first time, I felt like I wasn’t battling against it. It flowed with me, through me.

I am focused. I am in control.

 

Locke’s voice slowly brought me back. “...and now, in this stillness, I slowly move my fingers. I move my fingers very carefully. I hear the sounds of the outside world...”

I stretched my fingers, flexing them gently as I rolled my shoulders, feeling the familiar cool air of the room again. But the peace still wrapped around me, calm and warm. It felt like floating.

“ I feel the ground beneath me. I let the power of the runes fade…”

“...Finally, I slowly open my eyes.”

There was a great silence and stillness over us. I took a deep breath, watching Locke as he sat in front of me. His back was straight, his jaw raised slightly, his head tilted. His hands rested on his knees. There were candles behind him, and their soft light filtered through his dark hair. 

I took another deep breath.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Good,” I said slowly, still dazed a little. “Really good.”

“Good,” he murmured, watching me. His voice was steady and reassuring. “You’ve done well.”

 

I slammed the book shut, the echo of it resonating in the stillness of my room. It was just past dinner, and I sat on the edge of my bed, muscles tight and breath quickening. My thoughts were dark. 

I stood up, kicked a discarded shirt away and paced the space between my bed and my desk, my fingers twitching with the energy of all the tension that had crept back. Like a dark cloud. A Locke-shaped dark cloud.

That damn potion had felt so good. Too good. I could still feel the warmth lingering in my body—the sweet, deceptive calm that now felt like a cruel joke.

I couldn’t believe I’d let Locke manipulate me like that.

I stopped the pacing, picked up my book, and tried to turn the page to where I was in my reading. It was a chapter about the possible dangers and complications of rune-lines with insufficient thickness. Boring, but it was the only book I had with me now.

I was such a fool. Locke made me brew that fucking potion. Made me drink it. Made me feel so fucking good–

“Calm down, breathe,” I growled, mimicking his voice in a sarcastic tone. I took a deep breath, but it did nothing good. I dropped the book back on the bed, turning around and kicking the leg of my chair. It fell over, clattering against the desk, and I winced at the sound.

I dropped down onto my bed, burying my face in my hands. My body felt like burning, my skin prickling, my chest heavy and tight. Why did I let him control me like that? 

Why did it feel so good?

Fuck Locke–

I slammed the door behind me, loud, and I rushed down the corridor, through a few turns and passages, some stairs, then up the spiral staircase to his study. I didn’t bother knocking, determined to shout at him if I have to, to make him understand he couldn’t–

And I halted, shocked.

Locke was not alone. There was Gavin, with his pants down, leaning over Locke’s writing desk. What the hell. His bottom was bare, and there were angry welts lining his skin, dark and red, looking absolutely painful. 

My eyes darted to Locke, who was standing behind him, cane raised mid-swing, his expression unreadable, as calm as ever.

“GET OUT!” shouted Gavin. 

Locke swung the cane, gave it a flick, and Gavin grunted, turning his face back to the desk as another hit landed on his bare skin. “Silence,” ordered Locke, and his voice was so cold that an actual shiver ran down my spine. I couldn’t tear my eyes away as a new red line seared into Gavin’s skin.

But it was just a moment, and then Locke stepped in front of me, his body blocking the view. “Wait outside,” he ordered. I winced and stumbled backward, out of the room, heart pounding in my chest. The door clicked shut behind me. 

It wasn’t a conscious thing to do, to cast that eavesdropping spell. I leaned against the wall, pressing my back to the cold stone, and closed my eyes, not knowing what to do or how to feel. 

It felt like this whole day was about not knowing how to feel.

It was so slow. Silence stretched, broken only by the faint rustling of clothing. Then came the horrible swish of the cane slicing through the air, followed by a thwack – wood against flesh. Even though I wasn’t in the room, even though I couldn’t see it, the sound made me flinch. Gavin’s muffled cry came next, quiet and strained, and my eyes locked onto the rough brick wall in front of me.

“Stay still,” Locke’s voice broke the silence, and I jumped, the eavesdropping spell making it feel like he was speaking right next to me, not on the other side of a door. I went still, the authoritative command in his voice making the fine hairs stand all over my body.

Locke’s calm, almost clinical demeanour contrasted sharply with Gavin’s ragged breaths. “You know the rules,” he said, his tone cold and unwavering.

Another strike landed, and Gavin made a small, pitifully high voice. “Yes, Councillor Locke. I’m sorry,” he gasped. There was something unsettling about his compliance, how he seemed to accept his punishment with calmness, even as his body betrayed his pain. It horrified me.

The cane cut through the air again, and I heard Gavin’s breath hitch. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Good,” Locke said. “We are done here. You may pull your trousers up.”

“Thank you, Councillor,” said Gavin. More sounds of moving. Steps. I clenched my fists, realising that my breathing was ragged, too. 

“You are dismissed,” said Locke. He sounded cold. Indifferent. “Be on time tomorrow.”

“Yes, Councillor.”

I stepped back abruptly as the door opened. Gavin paused for a heartbeat, our eyes locking for a brief moment. Then he shoved past me, shoulder knocking into mine, and I staggered back into the wall.

What had I just witnessed?

I didn't even have a chance to collect my thoughts before Locke appeared in the doorway. He made one simple, quick gesture with his hand, and I felt my eavesdropping spell fade away. Oops. 

He didn’t say a word, just stepped aside and ordered me in with a sharp flash of his eyes. I gulped but walked past him, ducking my head as I entered. The door clicked shut behind me.

“Sit,” Locke commanded, his eyes narrowing slightly as he watched me. I dropped into the usual chair, my heart pounding. My gaze flickered to the cane still lying on his desk.

"What did Gavin do?" I asked, pulling absently at my sleeve. The image of Gavin’s bare skin, the angry red lines, the awful sound of the cane—all of it kept replaying in my mind.

Locke’s expression remained unreadable. “He broke my rules,” he said simply.

“Okay, I guessed, but what–”

“I will answer your questions after you answer mine.” His voice cut through mine, calm but sharp. “To what do I owe the pleasure of you barging into my office without knocking?”

I bit my lip, feeling my face flush. “I– nothing. Sorry.”  I stood abruptly, ready to leave, but Locke’s cold stare froze me halfway. He gestured to the chair. I sank back down.

“What did you want, William?” he asked, his voice steely.

“Nothing,” I repeated, wiping my palms on my trousers. “So, I’m– you know, really sorry for disturbing you. Apologies. I won’t disturb you any longer.”

I stood up again, slower this time. He watched me with an arched eyebrow. I took a small step towards the door. 

He sighed. “Will you sit down on your own, or should I encourage you with some magic?”

I stopped my careful sidestep towards the door. He watched me with an unreadable expression. I rolled my eyes, just to annoy him, then sat back, crossing my arms tightly over my chest.

“I’m listening,” he said, placing his elbows on the desk and steepling his fingers under his chin.

“I wanted to– talk,” I mumbled, not looking at him.

“Oh, really?” he responded, nodding as if he had just figured that out right now.

I glared at him. It was getting more and more easy to remember how angry I was just ten minutes ago. “Yes.”

“You don’t leave that chair,” he said, voice calm but firm, “until you’ve told me how you feel.”

I raised my eyebrows. “How I feel? I didn’t come here to talk about my feelings.”

“Well, you will now,” he shrugged. “Talk.”

I breathed out sharply through my nose, arms still crossed. I turned my head away, glaring at the cabinet in the corner (there was a new cabinet there).

“You seem angry,” he noted lightly.

“I’m not angry,” I snapped.

“Do not lie to me.”

I opened my mouth, looking around, exasperated. Tried to think about anything to get out of this situation. 

It was a mess. I tried to think about how I felt, but it was just a mess. Much, much bigger mess than I ever had in my room, even though there was a whole month in the monastery when I used illusions to hide the state of my room from the monks, after an experiment with a conjuring spell went wrong and every single thing in my room got thickly coated in some slimy and sticky green stuff. That was a tiny mess compared to my head right now. 

“It was fake,” I murmured.

He blinked, and his cold, expectant face finally softened a bit.

“It was?” he echoed. 

“The meditation,” I clarified. “The potion. It wasn’t real. You tricked me.”

He looked outright confused now. “I tricked you?” He had no idea what I was even talking about. 

“That calming draught!” I exclaimed, raising my voice. “Everything I felt, everything I thought I was finally controlling—it wasn’t real! It was just the potion doing all the work! I wasn’t in control of anything. You made me feel like I was making progress, like I was actually handling my magic, but it was all just a lie.”

Locke remained silent for a moment, studying me, then he leaned back slightly. “The potion was a tool, William. A tool to help you quiet your mind so you could focus.”

“You made me drink that damn potion,” I went on, “You manipulated me into thinking I was getting better, when really, I was just drugged into feeling calm. That’s not progress. That’s just—” I broke off, shaking my head in disbelief. “It’s just fake. ”

Locke’s expression hardened. “You think the effects of the potion invalidated your progress?”

“Yes!” I threw my hands up in frustration. “Of course they did! None of that was real.”

Locke leaned forward now, his gaze sharp. “Then answer me this. When you were calm, did you still follow the meditative steps? Did you still control your breathing, your focus?”

“I–” I faltered a bit. “That’s not the point. The point is that you–”

“That is exactly the point,” Locke interrupted, his voice firm. “You think the potion made everything happen, but you still did the work. You still followed the steps. The potion didn’t do that for you. You did.

I stared at him. “But it wasn’t me. I didn’t earn that calm. I didn’t earn that control.”

Locke crossed his arms, his gaze heavy. “That’s what you’re angry about, isn’t it? You felt how good control could be, and now you’re scared you can’t get there without the potion.”

I huffed, looking down at my knees. “No,” I mumbled.

“The potion wasn’t meant to be a permanent solution,” he continued. “It was a glimpse of what’s possible. It’s up to you to get there yourself.”

I clenched my jaw, refusing to look at him. It was infuriating how he made everything sound like he was right. He wasn’t. 

“It was an important experience,” Locke added. “Use it. Learn from it. And eventually, you will be able to reach that state without the draught.”

“I won’t,” I huffed. 

“Well, you will have to,” he shrugged, leaning back on his chair.  

I shot him an angry look. “What did Gavin do?” I asked, my eyes flicking to the cane lying still and deceptively harmless on the desk.

“I’m giving him some extra lessons because he failed my artefact legislation course last semester. He wishes to take an auxiliary exam, so he won’t have to repeat the course in the winter.”

I raised a sceptical eyebrow. “And that was the lesson?”

“No,” Locke said, cool and detached. “This was a punishment.”

“For what?”

He studied me for a moment, his eyes narrowing. “Why are you so eager to know?”

“To learn from his mistake and not make the same one?” I forced a grin. “That's a good thing, isn’t it? Responsible.”

Locke raised a brow, unimpressed. “You mean you’re curious.”

“I am.”

“He was late.”

“You–” I stared at him, confused. “You did…that, because he was late?”

“He was late twice ,” Locke added, matter-of-factly..

My mouth dropped open. I shut it, disbelieving. “But– that, for being late?”

“Twice,” he repeated, as if it were the most reasonable explanation in the world. watched, stunned, as he reached out and patted the end of the cane the way someone might pat a small animal.

Gavin was late twice…

How many times had I been late? A lot more than twice, that was for sure. Hell, there were weeks when I was consistently late to his lessons. Locke had never caned me for it. He threatened me, of course, with all kinds of punishments, but mostly just gave me his usual disappointed look and a long lecture about punctuality and discipline and all his other favourite subjects. 

Locke seemed to know exactly what I was thinking. A smirk played at the edges of his lips as he watched me, my gaze shifting nervously between him and the cane.

I shifted in my seat, suddenly self-conscious. “Well, thank you for the conversation,” I said, standing up.  I fumbled with my hands for a moment before shoving them into the pockets of my coat. “I’m really sorry for disturbing you. And, uh, sorry for not knocking. I’m gonna go and…leave you and your cane some privacy.”

Something flickered in his eyes – amusement, maybe? “Did I say you could leave?”

That asshole.

“Well, you–” I started, but stopped as his eyebrow arched slightly. “No.”

“Sit back down then, please.”

I gave a frustrated growl, but tossed myself down on the chair. 

“I understand that you were upset,” he said, leaning forward. His voice dropped to an unnervingly calm tone. “But if you ever eavesdrop on me again, you're going to get ten times what Gavin just got, do you understand?”

I gulped, feeling suddenly quite small under his gaze. “Of course.”

He smiled, but there was nothing warm in it. “Good.”

“But I’m constantly late,” I blurted out. 

Why am I even bringing this up?

“You are,” he agreed, and some of the tension broke as he leaned back, taking his sharp glare finally off me. “You are– you are not like Gavin.” 

Somehow, I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed by that. My gaze flickered to the cane. 

For a long moment, he just studied me in silence. I could feel his gaze lingering, heavy and unreadable. I avoided looking directly at him, trying to keep my own face blank. The room felt unnaturally quiet.

Then, finally, he spoke. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

I blinked, snapping out of my thoughts. “What?” I perked up, sitting straighter. “Where? Why?”

He didn’t answer right away, his eyes fixed on me again, as if weighing my reaction. “I have some work that needs to be done,” he said slowly.

I leaned forward. “Can I–?” Oh shit, don't sound so desperate.

Of course I wanted to go. Anywhere would be better than staying locked here. He knew it too. His lips twitched, the slightest hint of a smirk playing at the edges. “You want to come,” he said, not bothering to phrase it as a question.

I hesitated, unsure of how to respond without sounding too eager. “Well…yeah, I mean, I just figured… I could help. I could be useful.”

Locke leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest as he studied me. There was a long pause, the silence thick between us again. I felt my stomach twist, waiting for his response. He knew I wanted to go. It wasn’t like he had other apprentices lining up to follow him around. 

“You will come with me,” he satiated then, and smiled a bit smugly as he watched my obvious relief. “You will come with me, and you will follow my lead. You will do as you are told, without arguments, without complaints.”

I frowned. “I have always followed your lead.”

He huffed, actually laughing. “Are you kidding me?”

“No, I–”

He waved me off. “The point is that you will follow my orders, without this constant backtalk, or this will be the last time you have left the Sanctum for the next year. Is that clear?” His gaze bore into me, then shifted pointedly to the cane on his desk.

I bit my lip, looking down. “Yes, master.”

“Good,” he said with a satisfied smile. “You are dismissed for now. Pack your bag for a week, then go straight to sleep. Tomorrow morning, have an early breakfast, then meet me here at sunrise.”

I stood to leave, but just as I reached the door, his voice stopped me in my tracks.

“And William?”

I turned, waiting. 

“I’m cautious because you could be in danger outside, even while wearing the talisman. I am not just being hard on you because you are often irresponsible, immature and undisciplined… but that too. Don’t make me regret this.”

Notes:

Thank you for being here!

Chapter 20: Wraith's Wine

Summary:

Journey.
Wine.
(I can't write summaries.)

Notes:

Priske's tale was inspired by 'Play Minstrel Play' by Blackmore's Night:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hDt7YhCYMas
(which, you can probably notice, was inspired by other (songs and) stories)

It was a dark night when the minstrel arrived. The harvest moon was shining brightly, its copper light casting long shadows across the cobblestoned street. The tall houses stood dark and silent, no lamplight glimmering in the empty, black windows. The ancient, gnarled trees whispered secrets to the wind, and the air was thick with the scent of the autumn leaves and something more, something unsettling, something that was quite like fear.

It was a strange night when the minstrel arrived. He came under the ghostly luminance of the moon, draped in a cloak of deepest black that seemed to swallow all the feeble light around him. He arrived with an eerie grace in his steps, his face obscured by the hood, leaving only the faint glimmer of his eyes visible. He carried a lute, his white fingers, long and tender, resting on the strings. His steps were soft, barely disturbing the leaves on the ground, the stillness of the night. 

It was a hopeful night when the minstrel arrived. Life flashed in the depths of the houses. A dim, flickering candle flame appeared in a distant window. Perhaps a face, just an outline, the light of an open eye glimmered in an alley. Footsteps tapped on the stone, a shadow slipped. There were words whispered in the darkness, and a low voice, unsure and not yet quite daring to hope, answered. 

It was a quiet night when the minstrel started to play. A melody drifted between the houses, along the narrow streets. It was beautiful, impossibly so. It smoothed over the cobblestones, the once neat brick walls of the houses, the yellowing, drying leaves of the trees. It caressed every soul it met, soft and light, warm, comfortable, soothing. Hearts were beating a tiny bit braver.

It was a long night, as the minstrel played his song. 

 

Priske lived in a very tall and very narrow house. There was just enough room–

 

“We are approaching the inn,” said Locke, and I winced at his voice, suddenly too loud in the carriage. “Put the book away. Get ready.”

“All right,” I murmured, not even looking up.

 

Priske lived in a very tall and very narrow house. There was just enough room on the ground floor to take off his shoes, hang his coat on the rack, and climb the narrow, rickety stairs to the first floor. On the first floor there was a tall, narrow table against the wall, with a tall, narrow chair next to it, where Priske ate his dinner, if he had one. From there, an even narrower and more rickety flight of stairs led to the second floor, where a rickety bed stood. Priske washed the bedclothes in the stream, but he couldn't patch the holes because he didn't know how to do it. From there, only a narrow, rickety ladder led to the third floor, where the walls were so narrow that even a boy the size of Priske could barely fit through them. There was nothing on the third floor, only a tall, narrow, rickety chair. Priske carried the rickety chair up from the first floor (where no one was sitting on it anymore) because even though he was narrow like the building, he was not tall yet and he could only look out of the tiny, round window of the attic if he climbed onto the chair first. Then he could see the whole street from there.

So Priske watched, hiding in the attic, as the minstrel arrived in the town on that dark night. He watched the long, spidery fingers, the face hidden under the hood, the small smile at the corner of the mouth, the sharp, splintered bones around the empty eye sockets. He watched the steps of the minstrel, gliding over the dark cobblestones of the street, moving to a rhythm that no one heard, and perhaps even Priske didn't quite understand.

But Priske understood so much more than the others. He understood the walls of the very tall and very narrow house as they sighed in the wind. He understood the speech of the creaking stairs and knew where to step if he wanted to sneak in complete silence. He understood the window panes rattling in the wind and the rain pattering on the windowsill. He understood the moonlight running across the cobblestones and the stars hidden in the darkness of the night.

The darkness spoke to him. The darkness settled over the town so long ago that very few remembered what life was like before its arrival. Priske was definitely not among them. Priske was usually too young to be taken seriously by anyone, and often too weird to be listened to at all. Yet it was Priske to whom the darkness spoke, and Priske who understood its speech. The first time the darkness spoke to him was the night the darkness took his sister. The second time was the night it took his parents. Since then, the very tall and very narrow house seemed huge because there was no one there but a little boy and the darkness that spoke to him every night.

The night when Priske watched the minstrel arrive was–

 

“I said get ready.” Locke’s voice shattered the silence again, louder this time, irritation creeping into his tone. 

I gritted my teeth, fingers tightening around the edges of the book. “Just this page,” I muttered.

 

The night when Priske watched the minstrel arrive was a quiet one. Priske felt the hope flaring up in the town, heard the words whispered in the depths of the houses, felt the joy that did not dare to flare up, but was present and stable. He heard a hundred thoughts about the saviour of the town.

As the minstrel began to play, his fingers fluttering like shadows across the strings, Priske covered his ears, but he still heard the yearning across the town. He saw the flame of a candle, the flaring lights in the dark houses. He saw a window opening. Faces at a door. He heard footsteps on the street. 

Priske climbed off the chair and crept down the ladder and the two stairs to the ground floor. The very narrow, very tall house was silent and motionless around him, not a squeak, not a knock, not even a breath. By the time he reached the street, the crowd was already following the minstrel, their feet tapping steadily on the stones, to the rhythm of the minstrel’s melancholy song, otherwise silent as ghosts. But Priske knew they were alive, and Priske knew many other things the others didn't, so he ran as fast as he could, the soles of his worn boots half torn off.

The townspeople gathered at the main square, pale faces and wide eyes under the coppery light of the harvest moon. Shadows moved among the people. They waited. Blood flowed in their veins, red blood full of life. Their hearts pounded, ragged but alive. Muscles tensed in anticipation, hands clenched, teeth chattered in the icy night air. The wind carried snippets of whispered prayers, half-formed thoughts and fleeting fears.

“You have come at last,” said a voice, softly, barely daring to form the words. “The one to lift the shadows from our lives.” 

“No,” said Priske, but no one heard him.

“Play for us again.” This voice was choked with despair. “Take away our sorrow.”

“Don’t,” said Priske, but no one paid attention to him.

“Lead us,” a stern-faced man urged, his hands gripping the brim of his hat as though it might be his last tether to sanity. “We will follow you.”

“He is dangerous,” said Priske, but he was small and strange and an orphan, and the man didn’t even look at him.

 

It was a dark night when the minstrel raised his long fingers and began to play again. The harvest moon hung high, its coppery light casting long, shifting shadows across the cobblestones–

 

“William.” The single word was firm and cold, making my whole body flinch.

“What the hell,” I snapped, slapping the book down onto my knees. “We are not there yet, are we? Why can’t I–”

“You are disregarding my orders right now.”

“I am. They are stupid orders.”

He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything else. I rolled my eyes before I turned back to the page.

 

It was a dark night when the minstrel raised his long fingers and began to play again. The harvest moon hung high, its coppery light casting long, shifting shadows across the cobblestones. The crowd held their breath, eyes fixed on the faint glimmer of the minstrel’s eyes under his hood of the deepest black. Notes of the lute drifted through the air.

It was a strange night when the music started anew. The melody unfurled in the square, reaching out to every house, every soul, every corner of the town, its notes floating on the chill night breeze. A haunting tune, weaving through the square, promising tranquillity, peace, completion. Voices joined, a soft, rhythmic chant, vowing to follow, pledging faith. The melody danced over the cobblestones, caressed the walls of the houses. It enveloped the crowd, wrapped them in soft warmth and gentle comfort. 

It was a sorrowful night as Priske listened. The darkness whispered to him, in dissonant harmony with the song, and Priske understood what it was saying. But Priske was small and strange and an orphan, and no one heard him, no one understood him, no one paid attention to him. 

It was a lonely night as Priske listened. The soft music, as a dark force, twisted the night around him. The shadows deepened, shifting and darkening. The minstrel wore a cloak made from the darkest black, and Priske saw his pale fingers, as if they were just a skeleton shining in the moonlight, dancing on the strings. Priske saw his smile, the small twitch at the corner of his mouth. Priske saw the face, no longer hidden under the hood, the empty eye sockets and the broken, splintered bones.

Priske shivered in the night. He heard everything, the whispering darkness, the minstrel playing the haunting melody on his flute, the people murmuring their vow to follow. He heard everything and he understood.

The night when the minstrel played his final notes never seemed to end. Priske no longer only heard, but also felt the darkness. The shadows lengthened, reaching out like tendrils of a nightmare made flesh, weaving a magic spell into the darkness. 

The town was silent, evermore. Only in Priske's mind did the minstrel's melody continue to play, a soft, almost gentle, neverending tune.

It was a dead night when the minstrel left the town. 

 

I lowered the book slowly, just as the carriage came to a halt. I avoided Locke’s gaze, instead glancing at Finnian. He was sitting in front of me, next to Locke, and seemed rather uncomfortable.

“Your bag is not packed,” said Locke in an icy voice. 

“Well, scandalous,” I muttered, grabbing my bag and tossing in the book and my leather waterskin. Stuffing my thick woollen shawl inside took a bit longer, which we spent in a quite awkward silence. “See?” I said finally. “Ready.”

Locke pushed the door of the carriage open. Cold air rushed in. “You are absolutely spending the next year sitting in the Sanctum,” he murmured. “Or more likely the next two. Hurry up.”

The inn seemed bright and full of life in the evening. The sound of conversation, laughter and music filtered out onto the brightly lit path leading to the entrance. The building itself was simple, two stories high, with neat brick walls. A stable boy led the horses away, bowing low to Locke. 

Locke strode into the inn with Finnian at his heel, while I trailed a bit further behind. The warm glow of lanterns illuminated the modest interior, revealing simple wooden beams and a handful of tables occupied by patrons enjoying their evening meals. The scent of roasted meat and freshly baked bread wafted through the air, making my stomach grumble in response.

As we entered, the innkeeper, a burly man with a thick beard, spotted Locke and quickly made his way over, bowing slightly. “Councillor Locke! It’s a pleasure to have you here. Your usual table is ready, sir.”

Locke nodded with a smile. “Thank you. We’ll have dinner.”

The innkeeper gestured towards a small, sturdy table near the hearth, where a fire crackled warmly, casting flickering shadows across the room. “Right this way, Councillor.”

As we settled into our chairs, an uncomfortable silence enveloped us. I fiddled with the edge of my cloak, stealing glances at Locke, who seemed lost in thought, watching the fire.

I was relieved when our dinner arrived. There was lamb stew and vegetables and crusty bread, pitchers of mead and wine, and I was glad to distract my thoughts with the rich flavours. 

As the night wore on, the noise in the inn escalated. Patrons laughed louder, voices rose in jubilant song. My eyes followed a young couple dancing between the tables, the girl's skirt swirling wide to the quick tune of the fiddle. The room was warm and I felt the tension from the long day’s journey (spent in a small carriage with Locke…) ease a bit. 

Just as I leaned back in my chair, feeling more and more carefree, a man stumbled into our space and plopped down on the chair beside us, swaying slightly. He had a scruffy beard and an unfocused gaze, but his grin was wide as he looked between Locke and me.

“Well, what have we here?” he slurred. “A fine councillor with a fine young man at his side! What a sight!” His gaze lingered on me, and I grimaced back, not liking his eyes on me. “Shouldn’t you be taking him somewhere private?” 

Locke’s expression didn’t change, but the coldness in his eyes deepened. “You’re mistaken. I’m here on business, and he is an apprentice of the Council,” he replied flatly, his voice low and commanding.

The drunk man laughed, undeterred. “Oh, come on now! A young lad like him,” he probably tried to gesture in my direction, but his sense of place was strongly misplaced, “needs a bit of fun, eh? Maybe you should take him upstairs and show him a good time! What’s the harm? Boys like him want a real man to teach them a thing or two!”

My cheeks burned as I shifted in my seat. The fire in the hearth seemed bigger than before, making the air feel almost too warm. I drank a few more sips of wine. 

“You are out of line,” said Locke, and the authority in his voice rang through the inn. 

He has a nice voice.

I would have liked to see him challenge this bloke to a duel or turn him into a toad, but instead, he simply waved a hand at the innkeeper, his expression unyielding.

The drunken man leaned closer, a smirk spreading across his face. “Oh, come on! I was just having fun!”

The innkeeper appeared, a firm expression on his face. “That’s enough of that,” he interjected, stepping between us. “I told you many times you can’t drink here if you always cause a disturbance…” With a quick, decisive motion, the innkeeper grabbed the man by the arm and began to pull him to his feet. “Get out before I call the guards.”

A few faces were turned to us, but they turned away now, following the man stumbling toward the exit, still grumbling and protesting. 

We sat in silence. I raised my cup and drank. Locke was sitting so close to me. Finnian went to prepare our room, so we were alone at our table.

Locke’s hand rested on the table, next to his empty plate. I grabbed his sleeve. 

He looked at me with a surprised expression. “Is everything–”

“You could,” I said abruptly, feeling a giddy rush as I slid closer to him, the firelight dancing in his eyes. “What he said. We could do that. You could.”

He stared at me, first raising his eyebrows, then lowering them, narrowing his eyes. He searched my face, confusion mingling with concern as I beamed back. Then his gaze flicked to my cup.

“What were you drinking?” he asked.

“What?” I replied, surprised. He picked up my cup, and I tried to stop him, but my movements felt strangely slow and clumsy. He brought the cup to his nose, inhaling deeply.

“What were you drinking?” he repeated, annoyance creeping into his tone as he slapped my hand away when I tried to pry my cup from his fingers.

“Nothing,” I said, as I pointed to the pitcher on the table. “Just this wine.”

Locke took a deep breath, shaking his head in disbelief. “That’s Wraith’s Wine. I should have known…”

“Wraith’s Wine?” I echoed.

“It’s an intoxicating brew made from the essence of wraith blossoms,” he explained, his voice a mixture of irritation and concern. “It has a stronger effect on magical energy, which is why you’re feeling… well, whatever you’re feeling right now.”

“I feel good,” I said with a grin, swaying slightly in my seat. “I feel... alive!”

“This is all we needed right now,” he murmured.

“Don’t be so grouchy,” I said, taking the pitcher and waving it in front of him. “Maybe you should have some too? Then you wouldn't be so uptight, and we could really do something fun together!”

My fingers slipped, and half of the wine spilled out, flooding the table, soaking Locke's trousers, and pooling on the plank floor beneath us.

“Oh, shit,” I murmured, trying to collect the spilled liquid from his legs, confused as to why it wasn’t working.

He caught my wrist in an iron grip, his expression hardening. “You are going to bed now,” he said, his voice low, cold, yet somehow still sensuous. With a swift gesture, he made the stains disappear from his clothes.

“With you?” I shot back, a teasing grin spreading across my face.

He rolled his eyes, a gesture filled with exasperation. “You are going to sleep ,” he corrected, his tone firm.

“You rolled your eyes!” I exclaimed, outraged.

Locke raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “You roll yours ten times a day. Ten times during all my sentences. Come on.” He pulled me to my feet, his grip firm yet still somehow gentle.

“I don’t want to sleep,” I protested, swaying slightly as the room tilted around me. “I’m too alive for that!”

“Alive?” he echoed, guiding me toward the stairs, his tone incredulous. “You’re about to fall over. You can be ‘alive’ in the bed.”

“In whose bed?” I giggled, laughter bubbling up uncontrollably. His grip tightened around my shoulder as he let out a deep sigh, clearly exasperated. “Do you want me to be alive in your bed, Councillor?”

“You’re making this much harder than it needs to be.”

“I could make you harder.”

He glanced at me with his deep, dark eyes, a small line forming between his furrowed brows. Shaking his head, he opened a door and dragged me through a narrow corridor.

“You are no fun,” I mumbled. 

“Fun is not our priority right now,” he sighed, guiding me into the dimly lit room. “Your priority is getting some rest.”

I pulled out of his arms and threw myself face-first onto the bed, the soft surface inviting me to sink into it. But strong hands suddenly grabbed my waist, pulling me back. I stumbled, realising the bed was still several feet away.

“What happened?” asked another voice. Finnian. I had almost forgotten he was there.

“Wraith’s Wine,” answered Locke, and Finnian hummed as if he knew exactly what that was. It seemed like everyone was familiar with drinks that intoxicated magicians—everyone except me. “Bring us some water, please.”

“Silverdew looks exactly like water,” I stated, letting Locke wrestle my arms out of my coat. He made an agreeing but otherwise uninterested sound. “There was this one time,” I went on. “I switched my brother's water with Silverdew.” Locke stilled, his fingers holding the sleeve of my coat. “He took this massive gulp, trying to act all dignified, and then…” I mimicked a loud choking sound, waving my arms dramatically, “He was coughing and spitting all over the place. Thought he was dying! And I just sat there, acting innocent.”

Locke sighed, putting my coat aside. “Why am I not surprised?” Finnain arrived, and Locke placed the glass of water firmly in my hands, making sure I could hold it. “Drink.”

“It’s cold,” I mumbled.

“Would you prefer it hot?” he snapped. “Drink it.”

He guided the glass to my lips, and I reluctantly took a gulp. He didn’t let me go until the glass was empty. 

Locke set the glass aside, his fingers brushing against my shoulder as he pushed me back onto the bed. “Now, sleep,” he ordered, his voice sharper than before.

I huffed, rolling onto my side, trying to get comfortable. “You’re so imperious.”

“And you’re fortunate I’m patient,” he retorted, pulling the blanket over me. “But push me further, and you’ll spend tomorrow wishing for that patience.”

“What does that mean?” I mumbled, and suddenly I remembered him standing with the cane raised in the air, his back straight, his head up, and with a stern face, striking down with that awful, screeching sound, and then watching silently as another streak of flame appeared on my soft, exposed skin– then I remembered that it hadn't happened that way, but half asleep, the image was still powerful and... what the hell, exciting ?

“Sleep,” he said, his tone leaving no room for debate.

I shifted under the blanket, halfheartedly grumbling, but the warmth and weight of it were already pulling me deeper into the bed. Just before I slipped away completely, I heard Locke sigh again.

Notes:

Priske's tale is a bit different, and I wasn't sure if it made sense to include such a long story within the story... but I enjoyed writing it tremendously :D
Thank you for being here ^^

Chapter 21: Shards

Summary:

Journey.

Notes:

I don’t know why it is that whenever I’m writing an important part, everything just rushes by in a flash. But when nothing is happening at all, it drags on for seven thousand words?

I woke up with a pounding headache and the distinct feeling that I had made an absolute fool of myself. My eyes cracked open, and I immediately regretted it, as the light streaming in from the window sent a sharp, stabbing sensation straight through my skull. I groaned, rolling onto my back and squeezing my eyes shut again.

I didn’t know what the hell I’d drunk last night, but it had done something to me. Some kind of wine—the details were fuzzy. What wasn’t fuzzy was the part where I had rambled… a lot?

I felt my stomach twist at the memory. Oh no.

There was a loud knock on the door, and I winced, pulling the blanket over my head. I heard the door open with a painful creak. 

“Councillor Locke says you have five minutes to go down for breakfast,” said Finnian.

“Tell him I don’t want to eat breakfast,” I groaned, the heavy blanket muffling my voice.

“He says you need to eat,” Finnian said. “And… he also said that you either go down in five minutes or he'll come up and drag you down by your ears in front of everyone.”

“He wouldn’t,” I murmured, but when I threw back the corner of the blanket to look at Finnian, I saw he definitely believed Locke would.

“Can I help you with something?” he asked, his voice cautious, but more friendly and less Locke-enthusiast now.

“No, thanks,” I groaned, rolling to my side and pushing myself up. “I’ll be down in a few.”

Getting dressed was a nightmare. Leaning down made my head feel like it would explode. I spent two minutes trying to put the right half of my boot on my left foot. Then, when I finally got both boots on and stood up, I felt the uncomfortable press of leather on bare skin—I’d forgotten my socks. I half-considered trying to conjure a pair on myself, but that kind of magic rarely went smoothly, and I didn’t want to risk accidentally turning my boots—or my feet—into socks. Swearing, I hopped back onto the bed and started untying my boots.

When I dragged myself downstairs, the inn was thankfully quieter than last night, but the clanging of pots and pans in the kitchen and a louder group at one of the tables made my head throb. I scrunched up my face as I headed for Locke's table. He was no longer eating but reading a long slip of parchment. I sank into my seat, wincing as the motion jostled my aching head.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. He kept reading. I tried to muster the courage to say something, anything, to break the oppressive silence, but every time I opened my mouth, the words vanished.

Minutes passed until Locke finally lowered that parchment. His voice was calm and measured, as if we were discussing the weather. “How are you feeling?”

“Miserably,” I said.

He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “That tends to be the effect of Wraith’s Wine. I’m guessing you weren’t aware of what you were drinking?”

I groaned, covering my face with my hands. “No, I had no idea. It was just on the table. I didn’t even know this thing existed…” My voice trailed off. I lowered my hands just enough to peek at Locke through my fingers. “Please tell me I didn’t say anything… too horrible?”

Locke rolled up the parchment, setting it aside before leaning back in his chair, regarding me with that unnervingly calm expression. “That depends on what you consider ‘horrible.’”

I groaned again, dropping my head down. “Please don’t do this to me right now.”

He let out a soft sigh, but his voice remained steady. “You were… forward, to say the least. Made several rather bold suggestions.”

My heart plummeted into my stomach. “Oh shit.” I dropped my head onto the table with a dull thud, my voice muffled by the wood. “I’m so sorry.”

There was a brief silence, and I could feel Locke’s eyes on me. Then he said, his tone more measured than before, “I know you didn’t mean it. You were under the influence of something powerful and unpredictable. But that doesn’t change the fact that you should be more cautious.”

I lifted my head slightly, just enough to glare at him from beneath a curl of my brown hair. “Yeah, well, next time I’ll try to avoid getting drugged by accident.”

He didn’t react, just slid a plate full of food in front of me. “Eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I don’t care. You can stare at the food and me with that grumpy face, but we are leaving in half an hour and your plate should be empty by then.” 

I shot him an appropriately grumpy look, then grabbed my fork and stabbed it into a piece of sausage. He sighed, leaning back and folding his arms.

“Last night,” he began slowly, “you mentioned your brother.”

My fork fork landed with a loud clatter on my plate. “My brother?” I repeated, fumbling for my fork again. “Which brother?”

He raised a questioning eyebrow. “You didn’t mention having more than one.” 

Oh shit. 

“I–” I cleared my throat. There was an ugly, tight feeling deep in my stomach. “What did I say?”

He took a long look at me before answering. “You told me a story about switching your brother’s water with Silverdew.” 

Oh. I managed not to smile at the memory. Instead, I shook my head. 

“I… I was drugged. I didn’t know what I was saying.”

Locke raised an eyebrow, his gaze unyielding. “You have told me before that you never knew your family.” His tone wasn’t accusatory, but the weight of the question was clear. “Why, then, did you speak of a brother?”

“I don’t…” I mumbled, my voice sounding weak even to my own ears. “It’s just—It’s nothing. I must’ve made it up. Like I said, I didn’t know what I was saying.”

“And I said I don’t want you to lie to me,” he said, his voice getting darker for a moment. 

I decided to stuff my mouth with some vegetables, unable to answer. 

He sighed, sliding a large glass of water in front of me. “Look, I know there are things you want to keep secret. Since I don't know exactly what those things are, I can’t understand why. But you need to know that we are dealing with bigger issues now. We need to confront your unusually powerful and dangerous magic. To do that, we may have to uncover some truths about your past.” His gaze was unwavering, and I swallowed hard, the vegetables tasting like sawdust in my mouth. “I don’t know what you are hiding, but the Dusk has appeared near you twice. While the Council does not currently suspect you of anything—nor do I—you still need to take this seriously. Think about how important it is to appear trustworthy. Keeping secrets won’t help you.”

“I’m not keeping secrets,” I protested weakly, raising my glass to occupy myself with drinking. 

“If your magic is tied to something dark, or if there are forces at play that you don’t understand, it could put you—and those around you—at risk,” Locke said, his voice calm but also a bit–worrying? 

“I’m not gonna blow up the Sanctum,” I shot back, rolling my eyes.

Locke let out a long, exasperated sigh, rubbing his temples as though trying to stave off a headache. I didn’t feel sympathetic. My own head was pounding too. “All right,” he said, standing up. “Eat. The effect of Wraith's Wine can be strong, but there is a spell that might ease your headache. I would be happy to use it on you if your plate is empty by the time we leave.”

I grimaced, but turned back to my food.

 

I was very eager to leave Sanctum, but now, as we bumped around in the cramped carriage for the second day, I began to reassess things. Locke's spell really did ease my headache, but he didn’t let me read, saying I'd only get worse if I read in the moving vehicle in this state. I said that boredom would make me feel much worse, but he took my book anyway.

I gazed out the window, but for an hour, there had been nothing here but uniform meadows and pastures and fields. Locke sat with his back straight and still. Finnian at least looked bored—as any normal person would in such a situation—but he also hadn't spoken since we set off. 

I sighed. I rolled my eyes. I tried to get more comfortable in the seat, but if I slid any lower, our knees would collide with Finnian's. I looked out the window. Fields. I looked at the carved patterns in the ceiling of the carriage. They were quite beautiful. Sheep grazed outside. My back hurt from the uncomfortable positions I was sitting in. I tilted my head back, trying to suppress a bored groan. 

“If you’re really that bored, you can list the hundred basic sigil-creating rules according to Apken,” Locke suggested, his voice steady and dry as ever, clearly unfazed by my discontent.

I glared at him, disbelieving. 

“I’m not that bored,” I said. Not that I could have listed more than two out of the hundred. He probably knew that I couldn’t.

“Well, you seem quite bored. Count your breaths, then. Tell me when you reach a hundred.”

“What?”

“It’s a good concentration exercise. Do it.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“It’s either that or Apken’s rules. I’m being generous.”

Generous, my ass.

I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned back, glaring out the window at the fields as I began counting in my head.

One…This is going to take forever. Two…Three…

We passed endless green hills. The road curved gently and I had to adjust my seat to keep the sun out of my eyes. A crossroads appeared in the distance.

I tried to focus on counting. How come I was still only at five? Or was it six? 

I glanced at Locke, then sighed heavily and loudly, as bored as I could. No reaction. Seven . I took another deep breath, then exhaled slowly and frustratedly, grumbling. Eight . Locke turned his gaze out the window, not even looking at me out of the corner of his eye. I rolled my head along with my eyes in a huge and frustrated sigh. Outside, the endless fields continued. Locke sat unmoving. I sighed longer than ever before–

Then I realised how these exaggerated breaths sounded—more like moans than sighs. Heat flooded my face, mortified. Did I really just do that? And more than once? I glanced at Finnian, and he really looked rather uncomfortable. Oh shit. 

“What number are you on?” Locke’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and commanding.

“What? Uh, I’m at… thirteen?”

“Start over.”

“What?”

“Start. Over.”

“How is it that you think reading is too much for me right now, but doing this stupid exercise is not?”

“Reading would make your headache worse. Counting your breaths will sharpen your focus.”

“And what am I supposed to focus on so much right now? Those sheep grazing out there? They really look quite dangerous, don’t they?”

He didn’t even blink, just turned his gaze to the sheep, examining them. “They don't seem too harmful to me. But it can have harmful consequences if you can't concentrate on one thing for twenty breaths. I can clearly see you mind wandering.”

I huffed, refraining from rolling my eyes. “I’m tired.”

Locke didn’t flinch. “Then breathe and focus. You’re wasting more energy arguing.”

I made a reluctant grunt, closing my eyes and letting my head bang to the side of the carriage with a small thump. I took a small breath, and started to count.

My body felt heavier, and even though I tried to focus, the soft creaking of the carriage wheels and the rhythmic clopping of the horses were like a lullaby.

 

When I woke up to my name being called, the sky outside was a dusky orange, and the sun was setting behind the surrounding mountains. We were passing through a deep valley, through dense, towering trees. The forest of Yadi Mapol. I blinked slowly, the dull thud of my headache finally gone. I stretched in my seat, my muscles stiff and my legs a little numb.

“I need you to wake up,” Locke said, and for a moment, I panicked— had I fallen asleep in the middle of that stupid exercise? Was he going to make me start over again? But his voice was surprisingly soft as he handed me my waterskin. “Drink,” he said. “We are soon arriving.”

I took a few sips, realising just now how dry my throat had been. “How long have I slept?”

“Through most of the day,” he replied. “It’s all right. Just put on your coat. It’s cold outside.”

As I wrapped the shawl around my neck, we passed a lamppost, followed by a tall wrought-iron fence and more lanterns, casting a warm, yellowish glow over the road. Soon, we passed a statue of a woman holding a sword. Her face looked eerily lifelike as we drew closer. Then we moved through another gate, and looking ahead, I could see the castle we were approaching. 

It was impressive, even in its half-ruined state. Walls of dark stone and wide towers rose up in front of us. Torches flared in their holders on the walls. All the ornate, pointed windows were covered with bars. 

“And please fix your hair,” said Locke suddenly, throwing me out of my thoughts, “because you look like you have been wrestling with goblins in your sleep.”

I tried to flatten my curls. Out of habit, I wrapped a lock around my finger and curled it thoughtfully until I noticed Locke's scowl. I tossed the lock behind my ear, lowering my hand. “Who’s gonna see my hair here?” I asked, glancing up at a collapsed tower. There were shards of rock and bricks scattered in the dry moat. “The ghosts?”

“The Keeper of the Fortress lives here,” said Locke. “But you have read the book I gave you about the Yadi Mapol Fortress, haven’t you?”

“I have” I nodded, staring out of the window.

I hadn’t. Actually, it seemed interesting, but I had no idea where I put it a fortnight ago, and I couldn’t manage to find it since. I didn’t tell Locke, as he already considered me unreliable when it came to books.

The carriage came to a halt. Locke got out first, followed by Finnian. They were already unloading the luggage when I climbed out. 

A wide, uneven cobbled path led to the lowered bridge in front of the gates. One of the two towers framing the entrance had partially collapsed, and the head of the leftmost stone lion guarding the entrance was missing. A cold wind swept across the road as we made our way to the gate.

An elderly man with a moustache opened the gate, dressed in a thick, long coat and holding a traditional lantern with a bright light sphere.

“Councillor Locke,” the man said, bowing his head. “I am very glad you have arrived.”

“Likewise, Theran. You have met my aide, Finnian, before. And this is William, my apprentice.”

“Welcome, young men. Come in, come in. I'll show you to your rooms. The dining hall is already laid for supper, you must be hungry from such a long journey.”

The fortress was in no better condition inside than it was outside. The hall we entered must once have been a sight to behold, but now it was nothing but falling plaster, worn frescoes, and crumbling columns. Theran led us through an angular inner courtyard, our boots echoing against the worn stone. The air carried a deep, earthy scent of aged stone and damp moss. A crumbling well leaned to one side in the middle of the courtyard, its stones chipped and rough. Wooden balconies clung to the walls above us, with a few beams hanging dangerously down. The windows were barred, and narrow arrow slits peered down from the walls. I felt a strange sensation of being watched and quickened my steps to keep up with the others.

But the wing where Theran led us seemed surprisingly cosy. Although the corridor was cold and draughty, there was not a single window broken, the stairs had not been knocked down and the room I was given had a warm fire in the fireplace. The room was simple, the bed narrow and hard, but the clean linen smelled fresh and floral, and even the dust had been wiped off the windowsills. I washed my hands and face in the bowl of lukewarm water in front of the fireplace, then towelled myself in a soft linen cloth. 

I was buttoning my clean shirt when there was a knock on my door. I assumed it would be Finnian, relaying Locke's orders as usual, but when the door opened with a soft creak, Locke himself was standing on the threshold. A little clumsily, I quickly tried to smooth down my shirt.

“We are expected for dinner,” he said. 

“All right,” I replied, slipping into my cloak. 

“Fix your collar,” Locke said. “Theran is waiting for us.”

“He's not a wizard, is he? Theran. There were light spheres everywhere, but he didn’t seem to use any magic.”

“He is not,” said Locke, raising half an eyebrow. A small, alarmingly sinister smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “But you could have read in the book why there is no magician living in the fortress. There were several chapters about it, if I remember correctly, maybe the seventh and eighth?”

I bit my lip as I smoothed down my clothes and stepped towards the door. “I’m ready.”

He sighed, drawing his hand forward. He was holding a book I recognised instantly by its black binding and long, straightforward title written in silver letters: A Full and Detailed History of Fortress Yadi Mapol, Including Its Founding, Its Heyday, and Then Dismal Decline, with the Creation, Potential, Hazards, and Possible Future of the Shards.

“Uh,” I said, as he tossed the book into my hands. 

“You left it in my office,” he said dryly, swiping his hands. “You can read the first two chapters tonight before you sleep.”

“Yes,” I said, not looking him in the eye. 

“Let’s go.”

The dining hall was illuminated by a row of bright light spheres placed in bronze lantern high along the walls. A long wooden table was laden with hearty dishes that filled the air with mouthwatering aromas – roasted venison glistering with herbs, a steaming stew, and loaves of crusty bread fresh from the oven. I hadn't eaten since morning, having slept through the day, and my stomach was rumbling softly as we took our seats. 

I didn't really speak during dinner. When Theran asked about the food, I gave a polite answer, but otherwise I listened in silence as he told Locke about the weather, listed statistics about the state of the forest, and asked if Locke could check out some of the light spheres that needed maintenance. It was actually quite pleasant, just sitting there eating a delicious dinner listening to their quiet chatter. 

 

The Shard was essentially a giant broken mirror. It was deliberately broken, made that way hundreds of years ago when Yadi Mapol Fortress was still full of life and magic. Such an ancient and dark fortress in the depths of the forest could have had a truly fascinating history: but the truth is that its desertion and collapse was only caused by the dwindling number of magicians. For centuries, fewer and fewer were born with magical powers. There was simply no one left to live here. 

The mirror's one hundred and thirteen shards were mounted in ornate wooden planks, which could be moved on rails sunk into the ground in a small and dusty room. Once inside, Locke stood still for half an hour, muttering incantations and shifting the panels into different positions. Finnian stood behind him with his hands hidden behind his back, his posture straight, probably waiting for Locke's next instruction. I stood a little further back, my stomach tight and my heart pounding: the Shard's unique power was that it gave us a glimpse into the viewer's past. It only worked on magicians. I moved as far back as I could against the door. If I had  read that damn book in the last two weeks, I'm sure I wouldn't have begged Locke to bring me along for this journey.

Despite the tension, I couldn’t stop yawning either. I read through that book during the night; the first rays of dawn were already filtering through my window by the time I reached the end. I had almost fallen asleep on the breakfast table, and had to endure Locke’s scolding about how he had only permitted me to read two chapters.

“You said I should read the first two chapters,” I said, “and I did. You didn’t mention anything about not being allowed to read further.”

“I said read two chapters,” Locke nodded, “and then go to sleep. Doesn’t that detail ring a bell?”

“No,” I lied, and yawned as he continued to explain how I was here to learn, and how I would never be able to concentrate on his work if I could barely stay on my feet.

BUt he was right: I really barely could stand on my feet. After weaving an incredible amount of magic into the air and likely rearranging the panels into every conceivable composition, Locke got to work examining the mirror shards one by one. He studied the first one, a smaller, roughly one-foot-high narrow piece, for twenty minutes, laying out parchments and books on a small table Theran bought him, occasionally writing things down. Finnian continued to stand motionless. I leaned my head against the doorframe and tried to keep my eyes open. If he spends twenty minutes examining one piece and there are a hundred and thirteen pieces in total, how long will we be here? I was too tired to feel like calculating it.

I had only ever encountered Finnian when he was carrying out Locke’s tasks. I wondered what he filled his days with when there wasn’t anything for him to do. Did he just stand somewhere, like this, motionless and silent, waiting to be called?

Sounds so boring.

I dozed off for a moment, and my head hit the door loudly. I let out a quiet cry of pain. Startled, I straightened up. Finnian glanced at me from the corner of his eye, but Locke didn’t even turn around.

“Get yourself together,” he said. 

“Is this what we’re going to be doing all day?” I asked grumpily, rubbing the sore spot on my temple where my head had hit the hard edge of the door.

“We need to examine the individual properties of each piece,” Locke said, weaving more spells over the surface of the mirror with one hand. His serious expression was reflected back in a hundred tiny fragments from the shards.

“ We are not doing anything. You’re the only one doing the examination. Do I have to stand here all day?”

“I'm not going to entrust any spells to you in this state,” Locke murmured, and at a gesture of his hand, a faint blue light flickered in the mirror. “But you will stay here, since you didn’t come here to sleep through the day. You could have slept through the night, but…,” he shrugged and finally moved on to the second mirror shard.

I rolled my eyes behind his back.

Locke let me suffer until lunch; then, to avoid appearing too lenient, he framed it as a strict command that I could go to sleep in the afternoon.

I was already awake, stretching lazily, when there was a knock on my door. This time it really was Finnian, informing me that we were expected for dinner.

“Was Locke doing the same thing all afternoon?” I asked as I closed the door behind me a little later, and we set off toward the dining room.

“Councillor Locke continued examining the artefacts,” Finnian nodded.

“Weren’t you bored to death?”

“Councillor Locke’s work is important and complex,” Finnian replied.

“That’s not a proper answer…” I muttered. We reached a corner in the long corridor. “Isn’t it quicker this way?” I pointed to the right as Finnian continued straight ahead. “Last night I went this way with Locke.”

Finnian stopped a few steps ahead of me. “I don’t know. Councillor Locke specifically instructed us to go this way. Come on, let’s not be late.”

“We won’t be late if we take the shorter route,” I shrugged and started off to the right.

“Councillor Locke specifically instructed us to go this way,” Finnian repeated.

“Oh, come on!”

“Please, come back. I can’t go against Councillor Locke’s instructions.”

“Why, what’s going to happen?” I called back. I was far enough down the dark and narrow corridor that I had to raise my voice for us to hear each other. “Will he give you a nasty look?”

“Please, Will!”

“Just come on, or we really will be late.”

Mumbling under his breath, Finnian hurried after me. I pulled my cloak tighter around me as I continued on.

After a while, Finnian’s footsteps came to a halt.

“Come on,” I repeated. “There’ll be another long corridor to the left, then after the stairs, we’ll be there. Why is it even important to Locke which corridor we are taking?”

“I can’t go any further,” he said.

I turned back. The corridor was indeed very dark, with only a faint light sphere at each distant end. Finnian stood frozen, several steps behind.

“Finnian?” I called. “It’s fine. I won’t let Locke eat you for dinner or anything like that. You can come along.”

“No—I mean I can’t. I can’t move my legs!”

I ran back to him. He was leaning forward, gripping one knee with both hands, but his legs wouldn’t budge. I tried to pull his leg myself, but it was as if it had been nailed to the worn, slowly fraying carpet.

“What the hell?” I muttered.

“Councillor Locke told us not to come this way,” Finnian groaned.

“Alright, alright,” I grumbled, moving my hands through the air around him, feeling for traces of magic. “There’s probably some spell. I’ll have you free in no time.”

First, I tried a few simple release spells. Then I wove a complex freedom spell around Finnian’s legs. Together, we gripped his knee to pull him free from the floor’s hold, but nothing happened.

Finnian looked like he was about to cry.

“Relax,” I said for the umpteenth time. “I’ll have it sorted in a minute.”

I was trying about the twentieth different incantation, unsuccessfully, when Locke appeared.

“Councillor Locke!” Finnian said, lowering his head. “Councillor Locke, please forgive me. I know we shouldn’t have come this way. Let me apologise, please.”

Locke stopped in front of us, arms crossed. I was still kneeling on the floor, where the magic had thickened beneath Finnian’s feet, trying to find the right counter-spell.

“How is it,” Locke said dryly, “that Finnian has served me for many years, following my every instruction with the utmost precision; and now he spends just two days with you and already ends up in trouble?”

I stood up defiantly. “Are you going to punish him?” I asked fiercely. “Fire him? Or why is he so afraid of every tiny mistake?”

“I’m not afraid,” Finnian said, turning to me in surprise. “I just want to do a good job.”

“He wants to do a good job,” Locke echoed, his gaze fixed on me. “He respects the Councillors. He’s disciplined. He follows my orders. Just as you should, don’t you think?”

“I’m not the one stuck to the floor,” I mumbled. 

Locke sighed, waved a hand, and Finnian was free. He stepped forward with relief, gasping for air. 

“The castle is full of defensive spells to protect the Shard. There are corridors that trap magicians and others that catch those without magical abilities. Theran and the servants who live here and maintain the castle know exactly where they can move safely. I know where I can move safely. You don’t, which is why I gave Finnian the proper route, so you both could have reached the dining hall without trouble.”

“I’m very sorry, Councillor Locke, that I failed to follow your instructions,” Finnian mumbled.

“Oh, I know very well it wasn’t your fault,” Locke replied, casting a long look at me.

How would you know? You weren’t even here.

But I didn’t want more arguments. I was hungry. 

“Sorry,” I muttered.

Locke levelled me with another thoughtful gaze, then sighed, ushering us back. 

“Finnian, it’s all right. Both of you, take the route I told you. I’m going to wait for you in the dining hall.”
I followed Finnian, somewhat sheepishly. He didn’t talk, though the castle was huge and it took several minutes to reach the dining hall. 

 

It took Locke four days to examine every piece of the mirror.

Four. Whole. Days.

On the second day, he called me over and showed me the spells he was using to check the mirror’s magic. Frustrated by the countless reflections surrounding us, I found the details of Locke’s work—no offence—excruciatingly boring. We had to comb through a long list of notes from previous years, then check everything with the proper incantations to ensure it all still worked correctly, and then document it all over again.

On the third day, Locke sent Finnian to fetch the chest. This was the only part that really piqued my curiosity: it was the same small chest Locke had wanted to take with him on a journey months ago, before the Dusk had shown up in that square. He hadn’t revealed its contents since then.

“Can I look when you open it, or do you plan to keep what’s in there a secret forever?” I asked.

“I will keep it a secret forever,” he nodded. “Turn away.”

“What? I wasn’t serious. Sorry.”

“I am serious. Get out.”

“But… please.”

We were alone; Finnian, after bringing the chest, had gone back to a nearby office to continue organising the completed notes. Locke placed the chest on a small table. “You’re here to learn,” he stated, “not to make insolent remarks.” He murmured a spell, his left hand making careful, precise movements over the top of the chest. Soft clicks of locks could be heard.

“So… could you please tell me what’s in it?” I asked, stepping closer.

“Nothing,” he replied.

“But—”

“There’s nothing in it.”

“Fine, then, I’m gonna get out, if this pleases you.” I turned away just as the lid of the chest clicked open with a louder sound.

“William.” Locke’s voice stopped me. “You really could stop this nonsense. There’s nothing in it. I mean it literally—nothing.” He turned the chest toward me. It was empty.

“Oh,” I said. 

“ Oh ,” he echoed with a smirk. 

“I thought you were bringing something… I don’t know, something important? Powerful? Some tool for you to assess artefacts? Something like that.”

“It is important,” said Locke. “And powerful. It’s a specially made, unique chest designed to carry delicate artefacts. The protective spells are distorted on this piece,,” he gestured to the mirror he was currently examining. “I need special tools to repair it, so we must transport it to the Sanctum. This chest is the safest way. It protects against physical harm, of course, but it also keeps its magical power in check. No magic can pass through the box, neither in nor out. Even a relic as old as this can be harmed by contact with too much other magic.”

I didn’t complain anymore while Locke slowly and carefully extracted the mirror piece from its place.

On the fourth day, Locke finished inspecting the pieces one by one and began to check the Shard’s functionality as a whole. A hard knot crept into my stomach.

“I feel nauseous,” I said quickly as he arranged the panels into one of the positions required for glimpsing into the past.

He paused, giving me an incredulous look.

“I ate too much cake after lunch,” I added.

“You should know that I could order you to stay,” he replied slowly. “I could punish you for lying and make you stand in the middle so we can both see what the Shard shows us about your past. And you would have to obey, wouldn’t you?”

“Well…maybe?”

“You should also know that I don’t need to actually use the mirrors to test their correct performance. You will stay. You will observe and try to learn something. And in the meantime, you can be grateful for how lenient I am for not giving you a serious punishment for lying. But this was the last time. I won’t tell you again not to lie to me .”

“Right,” I said. 

“Right. Stand back. I’m going to show you the spells, and then you will repeat them. Pay close attention; I assume you don’t want to be the one who ruins a nearly thousand-year-old artefact, do you?”

I gulped, stepping back. I watched his spellweaving. I tried to remember his words. He made the Shard glow and hum and vibrate. 

I stepped forward reluctantly when he beckoned me. I saw all sorts of disastrous possibilities ahead of me. Although I was terrified I might accidentally activate the mirrors and we’d witness some scene from my past, I was equally afraid that the mirrors might shatter, explode, melt, or catch fire—so many ways to make a mistake.

In the end, fortunately, nothing happened.

My spell didn’t work.

“Well,” Locke remarked, “it seems you still have a lot to learn, don’t you?”

I chose to stay silent. 

 

The journey home wasn’t exactly cheerful. We bounced along in silence in the carriage, and Locke's best idea for passing the time was to question me on various abstract magical theories. He started with elemental symbiosis. We stopped for a quick lunch in an inn, then he moved on to the philosophy of intent in spellcasting. He was just starting on a few questions about the Doctrine of Fate and Free Choice, when the storm came. 

It wasn’t really surprising; it was the very end of autumn, and the sky had been heavy with dense snow clouds since morning. A strong wind rattled the carriage window. The snow began to fall slowly, but within minutes it became so thick that the road was barely visible ahead of us. Locke gazed out the window thoughtfully.

“There is no sense in risking our safety while we try to reach the inn,” he said with a sigh. “We will stay at the nearest settlement.”

The nearest settlement was a small, dusty village. It had only one tavern on the main street—if it could be called a street. The innkeeper didn’t know Locke, but as a Councillor, he was welcomed with respect. We were served warm soup and fresh bread for dinner.

However, there was only one room.

“It’s better if we go to bed early tonight,” Locke said. “I hope the storm won’t last long, and we can set off at dawn tomorrow. There’s still a long way to the Sanctum.”

I looked around the tiny room, disheartened. The window was so small that half of it was already covered by the snow piling on the sill. The paint was peeling off in one corner. There was one bed, and the innkeeper had brought down two more cots from the attic, leaving barely any room to move. In one corner stood a small fireplace; in front of it, a screen concealed the washbasin filled with hot water.

I stepped toward one of the cots but stubbed my shin on the corner of the bed. I winced in pain.

“We could enlarge the room,” I said, raising my arm for the spell.

Locke caught my hand. “We don’t use magic on other people’s buildings,” he said sternly.

“But—”

“No. Go wash up. Change into your nightclothes.”

I wanted the cot farthest from Locke, but Finnian had already put his bags there by the time I finished washing. I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the wind rattling the tiny window.

Locke put out the lantern, and the room went perfectly dark; there wasn’t even a sliver of moonlight under the heavy clouds. I heard Locke get in bed. Then, silence. I stared at the dark ceiling some more.

A short time later, as only gentle, even breaths echoed in the room, I silently took out my book from my bag, conjured the tiniest, dimmest light sphere, and turned the pages to the next story. 

It was peculiar, not because of the story itself—a simple tale of a magical doctor in a small village—but because it wasn’t written in letters. Instead of rows of words, the page was covered in strange symbols. I traced them with my fingers, letting some magic seep into my fingertips, and a colourful vision of the story began to unfold in my mind.

Blinking sleepily, I leaned on my left elbow, tracing the symbols lazily with my right hand. I yawned.

My eyes closed for a moment, my hand slipped over the symbol, and– bang! A loud noise filled the room, and I stifled a yelp.

Locke was sitting up in his bed. 

“What,” he muttered in a dark, sleep-roughened voice, “are you doing?”

I slapped the book shut, slipping it below my blanket. “Nothing.”

In the darkness, I could make out only the outline, but I was certain he was frowning.

“William.”

“Just…reading.”

“Give it to me.”

“But…”

“Now.”

Sighing, I held up the book. The room was so small he didn’t even have to get up, just reached over, and plucked the book from my grip. “I instructed you to sleep.” He held the book up like a weapon. “If I hear one more sound from you tonight, I will toss you out into the snowstorm myself.” He tossed the book onto his nightstand and lay back down, clearly furious as he settled back into his blanket.

I sighed, slumping down, and shut my eyes.

 

The tavern was quiet the next morning. When Locke dragged us down for breakfast, no one else was seated at the tables yet. Behind the counter, a girl was absently wiping glasses. She didn’t seem any more enthusiastic when she served us breakfast.

“Could we have something warm to drink?” Locke asked.

“Of course, Councillor, I’ll bring it right away.”

She went away, then returned with hot tea and spiced wine. She was just about to turn away when the last pitcher she’d placed slipped off the edge of the table, shattering loudly on the floor.

The girl sighed deeply, unbothered. “Apologies. I’ll clean it up right away.”

“No harm done,” Locke replied casually, making a quick gesture with his hand—I assumed he meant to use a spell to clean up the spilled drink and glass shards, but instead, he suddenly leaned forward, sneezing.

“Bless you,” said the girl, and went for a broom. 

Locke frowned, and raised both of his hands for a spell. He managed a few gestures before a sneeze cut him off once more. 

“Bit of a cold?” I asked innocently, not smiling at all.

“Do it,” he barked, pointing at the mess on the floor. I leaned over, weaving a quick spell. The floor was clear and clean just as the girl arrived with the broom. She sighed, almost as if she regretted us saving her some work, then went back behind the counter, resuming her wiping with the same bored expression.

The storm had passed, and Locke insisted that we set off immediately after breakfast. Finnian loaded the bags onto the carriage, and before the sky was even fully light, we were already jolting along the snowy road. Everything around us was blanketed in an endless, smooth whiteness: the fields, the scattered farmhouses. No sheep grazed on the meadows now.

“You didn't have time to finish your thoughts on the Doctrine of Fate and Free Choice yesterday,” Locke remarked.

“That's fine,” I replied, trying to keep my tone light. He tilted his head slightly.

“Continue from Proposition Three.”

I groaned, leaning my head back against the seat “Right… Proposition Three,” I began, perfectly aware how bored my voice sounded. “It argues that any magical action affecting others is bound by ethical considerations, specifically how it can infringe upon someone else’s free will. The theory suggests that while we have the ability to alter another person's reality, we must also recognize the potential consequences of our actions on their autonomy.”

Locke merely raised an eyebrow at my bored tone. He asked questions about the Doctrine and pressed me until I covered every little detail that piqued his interest. I felt a wave of relief wash over me when the carriage reached a massive snowdrift, forcing us to stop, and he had to turn his attention away from me.

Locke looked out the window and opened the door, raising his hand to cast a spell—but then he let out a tremendous sneeze.

“Is everything all right, Councillor Locke?” Finnian asked, concern creeping into his voice.

“Yes, yes,” he replied, raising his hand again. He attempted to continue the spell, even as one of his eyes started to twitch... and another sneeze erupted from him. Then another. A round of uncontrollable sneezes overtook him, and he collapsed back into his seat.

I finally had to stifle a laugh. “You sure you’re all right?”

“ Perfectly fine,” Locke said through gritted teeth, regaining his composure. “I’ll remind you to take this seriously. Magic is nothing to laugh—achoo!—about.”

I bit my lip, trying to keep a straight face. 

Locke shot me a look that could’ve melted all the snow in the road ahead. “Do it,” he ordered, and I sighed, opened the other door, and used elemental magic to blow the snow away.

Only later, when I pulled out my book after we had been bumping along in silence for a while, did I finally realise I was in trouble. I flipped to the story I had been reading the night before, about the adventures of that doctor. I found the page where I had left off, where the doctor was treating an elderly woman who was—sneezing.

I froze. Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced at Locke. He wasn’t paying attention, but just to be safe, I angled the book so he couldn’t see the pages. I traced the symbols with my fingers again. That bang from last night...

Oh shit.

“Uh…” I began. “Councillor Locke?”

He looked at me with suspicion.

“Yes?”

“So, hypothetically,” I said, “if I… accidentally traced some symbols that, let’s say, caused a mild magical effect, like… sneezing. That wouldn’t be entirely my fault, would it?”

Locke’s eyes went steely. “William,” he said slowly, “what did you do?”

I swallowed as Locke’s piercing gaze fixed on me. He seemed too calm. I tried for my most innocent smile. 

“Well, you see…” I started, my smile faltering as his expression darkened. “I might’ve traced a few symbols last night. You know, in this book. And it might be – or might be not! – related to your… this small… problem.”

He stuck out his hand. “Show me that book.”

Reluctantly, I handed it over. He looked at the symbols, silently, for an uncomfortably long time.

"Let me get this straight,” Locke began finally, his voice low. “First, you ignored a direct order to sleep—”

I opened his mouth to argue but shut it quickly as his glare sharpened.

“Second, you,” Locke continued, pointing a finger at me, “who I guess know perfectly well that ancient symbol-stories require proper safety spells, decided to trace through those symbols without them?”

I shifted awkwardly on my seat.

“Well?” he prompted. “Am I correct?”

“Maybe,” I murmured. 

“Maybe,” he echoed. He pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes, and took a steadying breath before he looked back at me. “It’s exactly this type of reckless disregard that endangers yourself and others. This book is old. Do you know how distorted these symbols can be? It's no accident that we don't use this kind of storytelling anymore. Do you have any idea what you could have unleashed?”

Now that he brought it up, I actually did, and none of my ideas were particularly comforting. Still, I just pressed my lips together and didn’t respond.

“Nothing?” he snorted. “Let me give you a few possibilities. What if you trapped yourself in an illusion? Or all of us? The least that could happen would be that the house collapses on our heads. But what would you have done if, say, you summoned the shade of a character from the story into your mind, someone who doesn’t know their tale has long since ended?”

I gulped, looking away. My eyes met Finnian’s, and I felt my face flush, wishing he wasn’t there to witness my doom. 

“Yeah,” I murmured. 

“Or perhaps,” Locke continued, his voice low and unyielding, “you could have ended up cursing yourself. There are symbol-stories that have left magicians screaming, or blinded, or in comas lasting decades. You’re incredibly lucky that all you’ve done is left me sneezing like a fool.”

I bit my lip, avoiding his eyes.

He sighed. 

“Since you’re the only one here capable of using magic right now,” he continued, his words clipped, “you are going to learn how to reverse this spell yourself. I’m going to try to teach you, but if you don’t succeed by the time we reach the Sanctum, I will personally bring you before the Council for improper use of magic. Is that clear?”

“Yeah,” I murmured.

“Good.” He tossed the book back into my hands. “Start by telling me as much about this spell as you can. And let me remind you,” he added, his gaze intense, “this is not just about reversing a simple sneeze. Every action you take with magic has consequences. You need to take this seriously.”

“I am,” I murmured, looking down at the symbols.

Shit, I know nothing about symbol magic.

Chapter 22: The Marshlands of Durnock

Summary:

Portals. A nice midnight walk in a swamp.

Notes:

There's a scene that goes well with this I think, I listened to it while writing: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kzBx8TWcrG4&t=124s

Locke didn’t bring me before the Council. Instead, we had an unpleasant conversation in which he once again called my attention to the dangers of improper magic, my lack of focus, and what he deemed my inadequate self-control (my brain more or less shut off while I had to listen to this all over again). He also had some strong opinions about the kinds of books he thought I should be reading.

“And where, exactly, did you find this particular volume anyway?” he asked, waving the offending book—the one responsible for the sneezing spell—in front of me. “I sincerely hope you didn’t sneak into the library to get it, did you?”

“Of course not!” I replied, indignant. “I asked...someone to bring it out for me.”

“Someone?” he pressed.

“Sol.”

“Ah, Councillor Goldwin’s apprentice? A very promising, diligent young magician, isn’t he? Regardless, I’m forbidding you from requesting any books from him. Or from anyone else, for that matter.”

“You said I was banned from the library,” I protested, “not from reading!”

“You should have thought of that earlier,” he replied with a shrug.

“I’ll be bored out of my mind!” I argued.

“You should have thought of that earlier,” he repeated, infuriatingly calm. “Now go, change into your training clothes.”

“Now? We had training this morning. Why would we–”

“ William . Didn’t I make myself perfectly clear about what you were supposed to do?”

“Yes, you did…” I grumbled, reluctantly heading off to change. 

This was his latest hobby: surprise training sessions whenever he felt like it. If we did strength exercises in the morning, I’d have to run in the afternoon. If I practised balancing in the morning, then between spellcasting practice and evening meditation, we’d squeeze in some sword fighting as well. When I complained, he said that at least I’d have less time to be bored.

But actually, I didn’t really have much time to get bored. At the end of autumn I took my exams in alchemy, astronomy, and ritual magic, completing each one successfully (though I needed a bit of goodwill from Councillor Niobe for the last one). The winter semester began, bringing new classes (including Locke's course on artefact legislation) and such a tall stack of books to read that when Locke handed it to me, I couldn't even see over the top of it.

And, late in the evenings, with little else to do, I spent my time exploring the Sanctum. The hallways were almost always empty—and as winter set in, they became increasingly cold. I gradually learned my way around it, although I didn’t believe anyone could ever fully navigate the Sanctum. There were rooms and corridors sealed off over the years, staircases that sometimes led elsewhere depending on the moon’s phases, and doors with faded spells that sometimes brought you back to where you started.

The Sanctum didn’t really have floors. There were staircases where I knew I’d gone up three stories from the ground level, but if I walked down a long corridor from there, I might end up on the fifth floor. Nothing had the same height. Corridors led nowhere. Some hallways looped back without a single turn or door along the way. There were rooftops dwarfed by walls rising far above them, towers so hidden that they couldn’t be seen from the outside. Somewhere on the eastern side was a hall filled with trees and a deep lake. Somewhere underground the walls crumbled and passages narrowed, the wooden floors slowly giving way to bare stone, until eventually, you’d find yourself standing in a cave.

But the most interesting place of all was the old portal chamber.

These days, no one really used portals anymore: they required an astonishing amount of magic (and financial resources for the materials) to build, and they quickly became fickle and unreliable. Travellers often found themselves at the far ends of the world instead of their intended destination, sometimes with strangely discoloured eyebrows  (the reason for this was never truly understood), or, in the worst cases, arriving in pieces. Auric Dust was also prohibitively expensive, but at least it was reliably safe.

The Sanctum’s underground chamber housed three portals.

It was clear that years, if not decades, had passed since anyone had set foot there: everything was heavily coated in dust, a few piles of crates were stacked in one corner, and a display case with broken glass stood to one side.

Two portals were made of stone, towering as vaulted gateways in the corners of the room, the arches lined with a detailed series of complex runes. The magic in them had dulled to such an extent that I couldn’t activate them. Maybe the runes were defective—I didn’t know the runes as well as I should have, but I could still feel the magic tingling unpleasantly and amiss beneath my fingertips as I traced the lines.

The third portal was a large, round ring embedded in the floor, large enough for a dozen people to step through at once. Its centre was cold, smooth stone like the rest of the floor. But when I succeeded in activating the runes, the stone transformed into a peaceful, rolling landscape.

 

I didn’t want to leave the Sanctum, of course. I mean, I would have left, but only to break away from the monotony of daily life, from the constant studying and training. From Locke’s incessant scoldings and his disapprovingly furrowed brows (poor guy is going to wrinkle early). From Locke’s so rare praises.

But I knew that stepping into an old portal was akin to a suicide attempt, so when I returned to the portal chamber night after night, I mostly just sat there and gazed at the scenery: sometimes the stars in the sky, other times the heavy snowfall. A few times, I even spotted moose.

I sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor beside the portal, breathing in the dusty air. The only sound was the faint rustle of my cloak as I shifted slightly, leaning closer to the large round portal. It was mesmerising—the intricate runes glowed softly in the dim light, pulsing gently, and in the centre, that now-familiar landscape appeared: pine forests in the distance, with the moon shining brightly over snowy hills.

I reached out, tracing the runes with my fingers, feeling the cool stone beneath my skin. Each rune I touched sent a small jolt of magic through me, tingling, almost ticklish. 

When I first thought about changing the portal’s destinations, it was almost like a game. Figuring out how the complex system of runes worked, trying to keep it stable while experimenting with a few spells, fumbling with the incantations I had read about in some old book once; touching the runes with careful fingers. I cheered quietly when I first succeeded in making the image in the portal shimmer and, for just a brief moment, reveal another destination. I was careful not to direct it somewhere populated; the last thing I wanted was angry visitors at the Council complaining that some idiot apprentice was spying on them through a long-forgotten portal.

Over a few nights, I managed to perfect my method. I discovered a lakeshore where the water lay smooth as glass between the banks, and in the distance, snow-capped peaks towered into the sky. I found a forest clearing where a family of deer grazed. I  spent a few evenings in a field scattered with crows pecking at leftover crops from the autumn harvest.

 

Locke complained that I was even more distracted than usual. I didn’t tell him I’d been up half the night; instead, I kept silent and tried to get through the balancing exercises he insisted I repeat over and over again. It wasn’t going very well.

“You need to focus,” he sighed. He reached a point where his voice sounded almost disinterested. “Start again.”

“I am focusing,” I said, my voice coming out louder than I intended.

“This is what you call focus?” he scoffed. “Again.”

I rolled my eyes in frustration. Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to start over. These exercises felt like some absurd dance, twisting and contorting my body in ways that made me feel like a fool. I raised my leg into the prescribed position, tried to hold my balance, and then promptly lost it, my foot slipping as I fumbled to regain my stance. With a huff, I gave up, letting my leg drop back to the ground.

Locke sighed again, the sound laced with clear exasperation. “What is going on with you? You haven’t struggled so much with exercises like this in a long time.”

“You really want to know what’s bothering me, or are you just too busy relishing your role as my personal critic?” I shot back.

He paused, his voice a little calmer. “If you’re struggling, it’s my job to help you through it. Do you want to talk? We can stop this now, go inside, and have a civilised conversation.”

He waited, watching me. I stayed silent, jaw clenched.

He shrugged. “But if you would rather sulk and throw barbs than confront your issues, that’s your choice. In that case, start the sequence again, please.”

I positioned my legs with a groan. “Maybe it’d be easier to talk to you if you didn’t turn every conversation into a lecture,” I muttered.

He just raised an eyebrow. I sighed and forced myself into position. My body felt heavy, my legs trembling, the muscles protesting as I wobbled precariously. I took one step, then another—until my foot slipped, and I crashed to the ground with an irritated huff.

My whole body hurt. I lay there for a moment, catching my breath, then rolled onto my back, staring up at the grey sky. At least there was no snow.

“Again,” came Locke’s indifferent voice.

“No,” I replied flatly. 

He stepped into my line of sight, tall and imposing, one eyebrow raised. I refused to move.

“This isn’t a negotiation,” he said.

“Feels like one,” I muttered, feeling the cold from the ground seep into my clothes.

“Get up.”

“It’s comfortable here.”

“You are going to catch a cold.”

“You care?” I sneered.

“I do. Of course I care. Just because–”

“Oh, because if I were lying sick in the infirmary, there wouldn’t be anyone for you to order around all day?” I glared up at him, defiance sparking in my chest. “I bet that would be tough for you to handle, right?”

He held my gaze, his own expression hardening. “You’re only proving how much you need guidance,” he said, giving me a long look. “Get up. Discipline isn’t punishment; it’s a skill. The more you practise, the stronger you become.”

I didn’t move. 

He didn’t move.

The silence started to feel suffocating.

“If I’m so undisciplined,” I muttered, “maybe you should stop wasting time with lectures and actually do something about it?”

He held my gaze, an unsettling mix of irritation and understanding flickering in his eyes. “Careful what you ask for,” he said quietly. “You might find out that you need it more than you think.”

“No, I was just…”

“You were just?” His voice was eerily low. “Kidding? Talking back? Disrespecting me with every word?”

“No, I–”

“Wasting my time?”

“No, sorry!” I pushed myself up to my elbows. “I’m not…”

“Not what?” he pressed.

“I don’t know!”

“That much is obvious,” he said, frowning. “You’re dismissed for today. Get some rest. Sleep. We’ll try again tomorrow.”

 

That night I watched the crows for some time, imagining as they picked out Locke’s eyes. It was a disturbingly satisfying thought. 

I pictured him as he had stood over me that afternoon, the sky grey and dull behind him, his face irritated, while I lay there on the cold stone, its sharp edges digging into my shoulder blades. A flutter of back feathers; claws landing on his shoulders; sharp beaks tearing at his skin. Blood. His smug expression erased in shock.

Then, my mind drifting, I saw him leaning down, closer. I shifted, drawing my knees up instinctively, his dark gaze fixed on me. My chest tightening, my breath picking up. Suddenly, in my mind, he wasn’t wearing his winter training coat but only a white shirt, his muscles tensing beneath the fabric. His voice was cool, low, commanding. His breath hot against my skin…

The crows cawed loudly on the other side of the portal, and I jolted out of my thoughts. Feeling warmth flood my face, I leaned forward, sitting cross-legged beside the portal, and with quick gestures, tried to conjure a new destination. 

Maybe I was too rushed. It might be possible that my thoughts were half elsewhere while I performed the usual spells over the ring. The image in the portal trembled and faded. The runes were old, perhaps already unreliable. Locke had thrown it in my face countless times that I was neglecting my rune knowledge.

In any case, the image dimmed, and other images flashed by, and I thought everything was going smoothly—then suddenly the whole portal shook, and with a soft, whistling sound, it shrank in an instant to a size so small that perhaps one single person could have squeezed through it. I had no idea that such a thing was even possible.

Stunned, I lurched forward, kneeling on the cold stone, reaching for the faintly glowing runes. I focused on the energy coursing through them, feeling their magic pulse beneath my fingertips. I mumbled incantations, hoping to reverse the spells…and after just a few tries, the ring gave that whistling sound again and started to grow. A wave of relief (and surprise) washed over me, and then–

Then the runic ring glided smoothly beneath my knees, expanding much more rapidly than I intended.

I wasn’t prepared for this sudden shift. The realisation hit me: I was too close. Inside the portal. And too late. I found myself tumbling through the air, headfirst, as the portal opened beneath me. The breath was knocked out of me as my back slammed into something hard, the world around me spinning wildly.

 

The first thing I did was groan, turn over, and push myself up. Then I vomited.

The second thing I did was to feel over my body: my arms were intact. My legs were too. My torso seemed unharmed. My hair was still brown. I sighed in relief.

The third thing I did was to search for the portal. I looked behind me. Forward. To the right and to the left. Above and below me…Nothing.

Shit. 

That damn portal worked one-way only. 

Locke is going to kill me.

I stumbled on the uneven ground, sending up a light sphere. My head spun as I surveyed my surroundings. Twisted, gnarled trees stretched around me, their bare branches tangled and thorny. The ground beneath me was soft, yielding like a sponge, and I could already feel the cold muck seeping through my boots. I took a hesitant step forward, wincing at the squelching sound that echoed through the oppressive atmosphere, mingling with the relentless buzz of insects and the distant croak of frogs. I took another step, and sank knee-deep in cold, muddy, greenish water.

Locke is going to fucking kill me.

The air was thick with decay, heavy and musty. Everything was shrouded in a dense fog, tinged with a faint, eerie green light that dimmed my sphere’s glow. The wind whispered through the gnarled branches, carrying a soft, mournful sound. Long, shadowy shapes danced at the corners of my vision, and the more I listened, the more unsettling noises I heard—the rustling of unseen creatures in the underbrush, the distant hoot of an owl, and the occasional splash of something breaking the surface of the murky water.

Not creepy at all.

I recognized this place from stories in the old books—tales of foolhardy adventurers who dared to cross the Marshlands of Durnock. Suddenly, death by Locke seemed far more tempting than death by the swamp.

I leaned against the rough bark of a tree, trying to steady my racing thoughts. Locke had that tracking spell on me. He’d notice by morning that I’d gone missing—and then I’d be treated to a lifetime of lectures on the spell’s ‘invaluable usefulness’...

Spells. What could I do? Find north? That was basic, but what good would it do me? It wouldn’t help navigate this treacherous marsh; I could end up wandering deeper into its depths for days. Elemental magic? Manipulating the earth? I made a half-hearted attempt, willing the ground beneath me to solidify, but it didn’t surprise me when nothing happened. Earth was not my natural element. I tried a path-finding spell but it revealed nothing.

I could stand here in one place, waiting for the dawn.

A strange noise, like someone…whispering? Suddenly I regretted every book I’d read about travellers who, at best, were merely claimed by the bog; at worst, fell victim to mysterious swamp creatures, captured by will-o'-the-wisps, or wandered in the fog until they became trapped in their own minds… 

With a quick wave of my hand, I let the light sphere vanish. Better not see than to be seen by… anything .

Sighing, I set off, half-blind and silent, lifting each foot carefully from the thick, sucking mud. The night air clung to my skin, and every step was a squelch, a pull, a struggle to stay upright. In the darkness, strange shapes seemed to loom up from the shadows: twisted tree roots knotted together like ancient bones, bushes that looked disturbingly like the silhouettes of crouching figures. I could feel my pulse quicken, every rustling sound amplified as if something was just behind me, watching.

Calm down.

The silence was broken every now and then by the plop of something slipping into the water or the croak of a hidden frog. But then came other sounds—softer, deeper. A faint, rhythmic splash, like slow footsteps moving through the mud. I froze, straining to listen. For a long moment, there was nothing but the usual swamp noises, and I convinced myself it was just my imagination.

Then… a sigh. Low, distant, like something exhaling in the shadows. My skin prickled, the back of my mind tingling. My fingers itched for a light sphere, but I forced myself to stay still, staring into the darkness.

Nothing came.

I kept moving, half-sliding through the mud, hoping I was headed toward some edge of this cursed place. I was shivering from the cold, my teeth chattering. I weaved a few warming spells into my clothes, but they were heavy and damp with the cold water, and I could not warm up the whole swamp (not with the talisman in my neck, anyway). 

I stumbled as my foot sank deeper, the mud pulling at my leg like something alive. Gritting my teeth, I yanked it free, only to find my other foot stuck as well. Hours passed in this slow, punishing crawl, as I tried to search for the more firm areas in the ground. I broke a stick from a dry branch, to feel ahead before every step. Still, my legs were aching from dragging through thick sludge, my fingers trembling from the cold as I muttered release spells on my boots, one after the other, with barely any success. The marsh’s thick, stale air filled my lungs with each breath, weighing me down further with the smell of rot and decay. My eyes strained in the dark, picking my way through endless stretches of twisted roots, vines, and shallow pools of brackish water that pulled me down with every step.

Just a fun midnight walk.

Every crackle of branches, every whisper of wind against the black water, every guttural croak of a hidden creature had me whipping my head around, waiting for something to lunge from the shadows. The sighing breaths I’d heard before hadn’t reappeared, but the silence wasn’t any less unsettling. I was exhausted, shivering, on edge—and kept thinking if I even wanted to escape this damned place if that meant facing Locke back at the Sanctum.

Then, finally—a thin, yellowish light filtering through the night. Dawn . I let out a shaky breath, my frozen hands clutching at my coat. I stumbled forward, the ground growing just the slightest bit firmer beneath my feet, the mud losing its grip on me at last.

But as soon as I reached solid ground, my relief vanished. I might have escaped the swamp, and the oppressive, green mist was thinning—but in front of me stood the least welcoming forest I have ever seen.

In the light of the rising sun, the forest remained black, even though the trees had long been bare, with only a few dry leaves rustling on the branches in the wind. The gnarled trunks grew so close together, with such high, dense undergrowth, that I couldn’t see more than a few steps ahead. There was no clear path through the knotted branches, and the thick, finger-long thorns did little to encourage me to venture into the woods.

Great. 

I walked along the edge of the forest, hoping for any hint of a trail. I cast a drying spell on myself, which stopped the water dripping from my clothes, but could not erase the crawly, sticky feeling that the swamp left on my skin. My legs ached, and my numb fingers fiddled with the talisman hanging around my neck—I could clear out this entire forest with a spell strong enough. Or make every thorn soft. I could even send myself flying above the trees...

But with a sigh, I let go of the talisman, pulling my coat tighter. There was no guarantee a spell that powerful would even work, and if I tried, the best outcome might be that nothing at all happened.

And I was probably already in enough trouble.

Here I was on solid ground with dry clothes—exhausted, aching, and frustrated, but likely not in immediate danger. I could stop right here and just wait for Locke to come rescue me.

Shit .

I kept walking, and after a few minutes, there was a trail, or at least a part where there was a small rift between the thorns. There was also a sign next to it, a scrap of wood, cracked and grey with age, nailed to the top of a low post, pointing like an arrow into the woods. I had to sweep aside a few dry twigs (hissing when a thorn scraped my palm) to read it. The crudely carved letters, barely visible through the dirt and grime, spelled Elgrunn , which sounded well enough like a village; and below that, in smaller letters: The forest keeps what it claims.

What the hell?

I glanced back one last time toward the swamp. The trees cast endlessly long shadows over the greenish water, and the fog swirled low and thin now. A short distance away, the water rippled in a murky, disturbed pattern, and somewhere far off, something sounded like it was growling. I turned around, forcing my feet to move forward, into the break between the trees. I pushed through a web of branches that clung to my coat, snapping back into place as if the forest was trying to swallow me whole…

Don’t let your mind go there.

Inside, the shadows were so thick that the path was hard to distinguish, but I kept to what looked like a narrow track, stepping over roots and ducking beneath low branches. I conjured a light sphere, but it quickly faded. Thorns tore at my clothes and skin, and no matter how many repelling spells I muttered, the thorny branches only held back momentarily—then seemed to reach out with even greater…hunger.

Eventually, I gave up trying to keep them away with magic, pulled the sleeve of my coat over my fingers, and tried to push the branches aside by hand.

But it was still too much. Every step required careful manoeuvring—where to bend, where to pull back, which branch to push aside to avoid more thorns. The coat offered some protection, but my trousers were torn in several places, and more than once, I had to snap my head back just in time to avoid a thorn in my eye—only for it to scrape my face instead

The air was unnaturally heavy, smelling earthy and dense, the low sun’s light struggling to break through the gnarled branches. I tried not to think about the possibility that I might have long since strayed off the path. Maybe I was going backwards. Maybe the forest was consuming magic, and here I was, determined, bloodied, and exhausted, inching my way toward its centre…

The forest felt alive. Listening. Waiting for a misstep. Every now and then, I caught a faint rustle deeper in the trees, like something moving in time with me, always just out of sight.

I pushed these thoughts aside, gritted my teeth, and pressed on. 

 

The forest ended abruptly. The sun was higher in the sky, and its sudden light almost felt too bright to my eyes as I brushed aside the last branches and stepped out from among the trees. The path widened before me, and what had seemed like an accursed forest was replaced by gently rolling hills. Not far off, I could see the first houses of a village (Elgrunn, I guessed). And just a few steps away, leaning against the trunk of a completely ordinary, thornless tree, casually and comfortably, as if he were just taking a break from his afternoon stroll, stood Locke. 

I didn’t want to think about how I must look, emerging from the forest, sweaty, bloodied, and in torn clothes. He was in his usual uniform, elegant, flawless, with not a wrinkle in sight, probably not even a speck of dust, as always. I took a deep breath, dragging myself forward. At first, his face seemed expressionless, almost bored—but up close, I noticed his clenched jaw and tense shoulders, his arms crossed tightly as his index finger tapped sharply against his arm.

Wordlessly, he passed me a waterskin. I drank so quickly that some of the water ran down my chin. 

“I’m glad you are alive and in one piece. But let me tell you,” Locke said, waving a hand in my direction, “this isn’t how I expect my apprentice to present himself.”

I glared at him, wiping the water from my chin with a hand that came away streaked with blood.

“Well?” he continued. “All I know is you didn’t show up for training. I went to look for you—your room is in utter disarray, by the way—but you were nowhere to be found.”

I stayed silent, brushing twigs and bits of thorn from my coat. My fingers shook as I cast a small warming spell over my chest, trying to stop my shivering.

“I’m waiting for an explanation here, William,” he said in an icy voice. 

“It was an accident,” I said.

“You were under direct orders from the Council to remain in the Sanctum.”

“I know that very well.”

Locke sighed, short and sharp. “Either you tell me what happened, right now, or I’m going to side with those on the Council who think you should be kept locked up in the Citadel.”

I blinked at him. “It was an accident”, I repeated. “I– I fell…through a portal.” His eyebrows shot up. “Accidentally!”

“How could you accidentally fall through a portal? Where did you even find one? Please don’t tell me you created it, because then I will…” He shook his head, exasperated. “Kill you, maybe? I cannot decide yet.”

“I just found it!” I protested. “There’s a whole room in the Sanctum with three portals! I went there only to look, but then…this happened. It was not intentional, I swear.”

“Not intentional,” he echoed, weariness and doubt in his voice.

“If I’d wanted to use the portal, why the hell would I choose this place, of all the nice and comfortable places in the world?” Blood oozed from a scratch on my left hand, and I fumbled to cast a weak healing spell. Locke pushed himself off of the tree, stepped closer, slapped my hand away with an impatient grunt and performed the spell himself. Warmth spread over the wound, leaving a light, ticklish sensation as the bleeding stopped.

“I suppose my tracking spell is not so useless, after all?” he asked, smirking, still holding my wrist. 

“It’s the worst,” I mumbled as he pushed my coat sleeve up a bit and turned my arm around, checking for other wounds.

“Well, what would you have done if I hadn't come here?” His quick, precise healing spells worked over my arm, closing the scratches from the thorns. “Walk back to the Sanctum?”

I shrugged. “How far away are we?”

“Three, maybe four weeks on foot,” he said, releasing my wrist and taking hold of the other. 

“Oh,” I said.

“ Oh .” He studied my reaction with an unreadable expression. “I actually thought about making you walk all the way back as punishment,” he said a bit later. “But unfortunately, the Council wants to see you. There will be a disciplinary hearing.”

“A what?”

“A disciplinary hearing.”

“But– I told you, it was an accident!”

“William, the Council ordered you to stay in the Sanctum. Then I find you on the other end of the kingdom, battered and bloody?” He shook his head, and started to examine the wounds on my face. His fingers were absolutely not gentle.

“But nothing happened,” I insisted. “I just– you know, had a walk? In this nice swamp?”

His face darkened. “You went into the swamp?” he snapped, turning my head forcefully to the right, looking at a long cut just below my ear. “Hold still.”

“I didn’t go into the swamp,” I grumbled. “I was sitting in the portal chamber, and the next moment, I was in the middle of that damned swamp. It was an accident .”

He sighed, released my face (thankfully), and led me to a nearby rock, where he made me sit down. Crouching next to me, he began working on the wounds on my legs. “You’ll have a lot to explain,” he sighed, his hands moving over my trousers, spells warming my skin as they closed the scratches. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“I don’t think so,” I murmured, suddenly a bit flustered. 

“Good.” He pulled out his small vial of Auric Dust. “We can’t travel straight into the Sanctum, but once we arrive, we are going to go right away to your room, where you can wait for tomorrow’s Council meeting.” He smeared a bit of the power on my forehead. “Spend your time thinking about why you seem intent on wasting your talent on ‘accidents’ like this.”

“I’ve told you, it was–”

“Hush. Hold onto my arm.” 

And for a moment I looked back at the forest, thick and dark and unwelcoming, and then we were vanishing into nothingness. 

Chapter 23: Caning

Summary:

A disciplinary hearing.
Then things happen o.O

Notes:

Well, this is it.
Or at least a part of this chapter: the scene I first wrote from this story, now over a year ago (I can't believe it's been that long). I had to rewrite it fifty times because the little bit of introductory plot I had planned has since expanded into over 20 chapters (how did that happen? another thing I don't understand).
Soooo... please, enjoy!

I stood in the centre of the grand Council Chamber, looking at the colourful bursts of light on the marble floors as the late afternoon sun streamed through the stained glass windows. Almost all the Councillors were present, with Ashmore sitting at the heart of the semicircle. Locke was beside her, his eyes fixed on me as I fidgeted with my hands behind my back, trying to stand still.

My hearing was at the end of a long Council meeting, so I’d hoped the Councillors would be tired and eager to wrap things up quickly. 

How wrong I was.

First, they asked me like a hundred questions. How had I found the portals? Why did I visit them so often? Was I aware that they were old, unstable, and only meant for educational purposes, to be approached with caution? Could I explain in detail how I had accidentally fallen through one? Had I no control or intent in opening it? Where had the portal taken me? Did I know that my master, Councillor Locke, had a tracking spell placed on me? Why did I decide to wander around, instead of waiting for him?

“I wasn’t wandering around ,” I said, struggling to keep the annoyance out of my voice. “I was in the middle of a deadly swamp, surrounded by who knows what kind of creatures. Was I supposed to just sit there and wait for something to find me and, I don’t know…maybe eat me?”

Councillor Ashmore was not really impressed by my answer. “So you decided to cross the Durnock Forest?”

“It’s not like there were signs pointing me to other places…”

Locke cleared his throat softly. Ashmore glanced at him, then turned her grey eyes back to me.

“So, William, tell us about the forest, please.”

I hesitated. “There was a path. Narrow. Barely visible. I had to move slowly because every branch was covered in thorns, and I could barely squeeze between them. When I tried casting spells... I don’t know, something felt off. The incantations worked, but they didn’t feel as strong.”

I would have liked to know more about the Marshlands of Durnock. The books I had read were about adventures from centuries ago, battles with monsters, quests to rescue princesses—to put it mildly, they could hardly be called an accurate description of the Marshlands. I knew there were monsters lurking in the swamp, and that magic worked differently in the forest than it should have... but it would have been much easier to argue with the Council if I knew exactly where I had been. I tried asking Locke for a few books on the subject, but he just scoffed at my request while locking me in my room.

Ashmore kept her gaze steady on me, her hands neatly folded in front of her. “Councillor Locke was waiting for you when you left the forest,” she said.

“Yes, madam.”

“And with his help, you returned to the Sanctum, using Auric Dust.”

“Yes, madam.”

“Good. I think we’ve clarified the sequence of events. Any further questions from the Council?”

Low murmurs rippled through the room. Then, to Locke’s right, Councillor Rowland rose. I swallowed hard as his eyes bore down on me.

“You’ve shown an unusually high level of power for someone at your stage,” he said, his voice rusty and low. “How would you say your control over it has developed since you became an apprentice?”

“Well, I–” I shifted, glancing quickly at Locke, but his face was unreadable. “I think– It’s…better?”

“Can you state with certainty that your magic is completely safe, for both yourself and others—including the Council, the magical community, and the kingdom?” he pressed on.

“How would my magic threaten the kingdom?” My voice sounded sceptical, even amused, but as I reached the end of the question somehow I lost all my confidence. I took a deep breath, trying to stay calm.

Rowland flicked a hand impatiently. “Answer the question.”

I rocked nervously on the heels of my boot. In front of me, high up on their semicircle, Ashmore was looking down at me calmly. I still couldn’t read anything on Locke’s face. And the other two dozen Councillors were all watching me, expecting my answer. “I never harmed anyone,” I said finally, but for some reason my heart was beating loudly and my chest was tight with tension.

“Yet,” Rowland grunted. “Are you even aware how dangerous uncontrolled power can be?”

“Yeah, but I don’t–”

“Consider what happened in the library with your cleaning spell. That’s not the kind of control we expect from an apprentice.”

“That was one time!” I protested.

“What about that time you transported yourself in your sleep into the Lost Library? Wouldn’t you say that was as dangerous as–”

“I was the only one in danger there!” I replied. “Also, I found something that the Council couldn’t find for centuries.”

Rowland grunted, his voice low and menacing. “Watch your attitude, apprentice. Are you proud of yourself now?”

“No, I’m–” I would have liked to scratch his face off. “No, sir, I’m not.”

Rowland didn’t let up. “Your high level of magical power means even the simplest spells could have amplified effects.”

“Yes, but–”

“What if your magic breaches the wards protecting the Sanctum? What if dark forces slip through because you couldn’t keep your power in check?”

“I don’t–”

“Your unusual power could attract the attention of malevolent entities, perhaps even the very Dusk that has reappeared. Do you really want to be the reason something dark invades our world again?”

“The Dusk did not invade our world,” I scoffed, “it was created by the Council.”

A ripple of voices rose around me. My heart pounded in my chest, but I stood firm, meeting Rowland’s gaze. Maybe my tone wasn’t as respectful as it should have been – but none of them could deny that I was right. 

Rowland’s eyes narrowed, his voice cutting through the tension. “You are capable of great harm, and you must learn to control your power.”

“I’m trying,” I muttered, gritting my teeth.

“Trying isn’t good enough.” Rowland leaned in, his voice low and threatening. “What I see is a boy playing with fire, unaware of how quickly it can consume him. If–

“I’m not playing with fire,” I snapped, unbothered by the fact that I was interrupting a Councillor, that I was disrespectful, that I was doing exactly what they condemn me for. My fingers were fumbling around my collar, drawing the string out from my shirt. “I’m not dangerous. I’m doing every stupid exercise, I’m even wearing this fucking talisman, and–”

Locke crossed his arms over his chest, and this was enough to silence me. 

“Let’s hope that’s enough,” scoffed Rowland, then nodded to Ashmore, “I have no further questions.”

“Thank you, Councillor Rowland,” Ashmore nodded politely (as if there had been anything useful or important in Rowland’s damned questions). “Now, any final inquiries before we bring this session to a close?”

The barrage continued. Do I regret choosing apprenticeship? Do I understand why they placed restrictions on my movements? Do I fully comprehend the meaning of Councillor Locke’s orders to stay within the Sanctum? Have I ever been tempted to use my power against anyone? Would I accept additional restrictions if the Council deemed it necessary?

“What do you think your greatest weakness is, and how are you working to overcome it?” asked a Councillor so old her face was one great wrinkle. 

I blinked at her. “I…never thought about it?”

“You will have time to think about it in the prison,” scoffed someone on the other side.

“Since when are we imprisoning young magicians just for breaking a rule?” Councillor Niobe spoke up, raising her voice slightly.

“Since their power is unpredictable and could cause great harm to us,” murmured another Councillor. 

“Since when are we this afraid of something we don’t understand yet?” Niobe continued, and I felt a sudden warmth in my chest toward her. “This boy completed my course on ritual magic this autumn, despite arriving late and being years behind the other apprentices. He studied diligently and worked hard. He didn’t seem dangerous to me for a second.”

Suddenly, everyone was talking.

“Maybe we shouldn’t teach rituals to someone who can’t even cast a simple spell without causing havoc…”

“Teaching him is the only way we could make sure his powers are under control!”

“I warned you from the start this wouldn’t end well.”

“The prison–”

“He escaped from our prison–”

“Our duty is to protect the magical community above all else…”

“I believe in rules. Breaking them should have consequences, or we risk losing our authority. Discipline is crucial.”

“Flog him, of course, but isolation could not be our answer–”

“He deserves the chance to learn from his mistakes…”

Ashmore knocked on the pulpit before her. 

“I believe we have much to discuss. William, you are dismissed.”

The words “you are dismissed” sounded almost like a relief, but I knew it only meant I was being escorted by a guard to an antechamber, left alone to wait while they decided my fate.

 

 

I sat on a bench, and tried not to think about what might happen inside the Council chamber. There really were Councillors who wanted to toss me in prison. And Locke was silent during the whole hearing – maybe he agrees with them? It would definitely make his life easier if he didn't have to deal with me for years to come. Would they really lock me up just for accidentally stumbling through that damn portal?

I slumped further on the bench, my fingers twisting around the talisman at my neck.

 

 

The faintest sound: footsteps approaching the door. Locke . I straightened up, my body protesting from the uncomfortable position I’d been sitting in for so long. I stood quickly, but just as the door handle began to turn, another set of footsteps followed. They stopped, then a low, gruff voice echoed from outside. Rowland.

I could cast the eavesdropping spell quicker than I could think about whether it would be a good idea.

Rowland’s voice was low, clipped. “...what strings you pulled in there, but I don’t agree with this leniency. Not for someone like him.”

“I’m aware you don’t agree,” Locke replied, and there was a short pause when I could imagine them glaring at each other. “You have made that obvious. But the Council has made its decision. It’s my responsibility to discipline him.”

“This is someone who ignored direct Council orders,” Rowland’s voice dropped lower, “and, I believe, ignores yours on a daily basis. We’re lucky he didn’t stumble into something worse. And you think twelve strokes will teach him a lesson?”

“He is an apprentice, not a criminal.”

“It’s your job to teach him.”

“A flogging won’t make him learn faster.”

“What will? I don’t envy you, Ellis. That boy’s trouble.”

“I know.”

“And he is eavesdropping on us.”

“I know.”

“Well, good luck, then.”

I quickly waved the spell away, stepping back to the bench and adjusting my clothes, heart hammering in my chest. But before I could sit down, the door swung open. I caught a glimpse of Rowland’s departing figure just as Locke stepped inside.

“Sorry,” I said quickly, gulping, not knowing where to put my hands.

Locke raised an eyebrow, the door clicking shut behind him. He stood in front of me, his posture rigid, arms crossed. “So, William.” He took a deep breath, as if preparing to deliver a lecture he had given many times before (well, he really has). “What you did was reckless, dangerous, and for an apprentice, it was unacceptable. You could have been killed. Or worse. Do you understand that?”

I stood frozen, avoiding his eyes. “It was an accident,” I said, my voice sounding way higher than I intended. 

Locke’s eyes sharpened. “Do you understand?” he repeated.

“Yes,” I said, swallowing. “I understand.”

“I hope so.” Locke stepped closer, and I had to force myself not to step back. “Because today, you have the chance to prove that you’re capable of discipline. But if you think, for a second, that I’ll tolerate even an ounce more of this behaviour, you’re dead wrong.”

I found myself taking a small step back anyway as I gulped. “Alright,” I said. “So…twelve strokes?”

“With a cane.”

I glanced around, my stomach tightening. “Like, right here?”

Locke sighed, the sound almost resigned. “In my study. Let’s go.”

I gulped. “Like—right now?”

“Yes. Come on, William.”

 

 

Locke’s study seemed colder than usual. The cane lay on his desk, and I wondered when he had placed it there as he shut the door behind us.

“Strip,” he said, his voice quiet but firm.

“What?” I turned to him, blinking. I couldn't even fathom that we were already in his study.

“Strip. It means to take off your clothes.”

“I know what the word means!” I shot back, not understanding why my heart kept beating so fast. This is just a caning . “But what– which clothes?”

“All of them. I told you before that apprentices take their punishments naked. It’s tradition.”

“Gavin was dressed when you caned him.”

“That was a small infraction, not an officially sanctioned punishment. Now, I will give you two minutes of privacy.” He was stepping to a dark, wooden door. “I suggest you take off your clothes, fold them neatly, and lean over the desk.”

“But–”

“Or you can do it later, right in front of me.”

“This is the stupidest tradition I have ever heard about!”

He just shrugged, and stepped through that door, leaving me alone in his study.

I stood in one place, stunned, glancing back and forth between the door he just closed behind him and the cane laying so casually on his desk. 

A full minute must have passed before I forced myself to move. I hastily stripped, crumpling my clothes into a pile, feeling the cold air on my bare skin. The moment the door opened behind me, I leaned over the desk, trembling. That damned cane was just inches from my face, but I refused to turn away as I heard Locke’s steps behind me. My feet barely reached the ground.

Locke’s footsteps grew louder behind me, then I saw his long fingers grabbing the cane, and I grimaced as I heard it swish through the air. “You will count every hit clearly and loudly,” he said, and his voice seemed cold and distant, “I don’t want to hear anything else from you during your punishment. If you speak out of turn, make mistakes in the numbers or move away, we are going to start again. Is that clear?”

“This is not how I imagined the first time you saw me naked,” I said, aiming for a light, carefree tone.

He didn't even warn me. I just heard the horrible, piercing sound of the cane cutting through the air, and then felt the even more horrible, white-hot pain cutting through my skin. I couldn't help but cry out, from the shock, from the pain, or just from the sheer disbelief that this is happening, or all of them above; but i made a quite ugly yell, and would jump up from the table if he wouldn’t push me back with a strong hand between my shoulder blades.

“Am I clear?” he hissed in a low voice.

“Yes.”

“Good. Are you ready?”

No. Please, not like this.

“Yes.”

He tapped the cane against my ass lightly before swinging it back and delivering the next blow with even more force than the last. I bit my lip, determined not to make a sound, and dug my fingers into the hard wood of the desk to suppress any sound.

Locke waited, longer than I expected. Then I heard him sigh, swing the cane again, and I tensed all my muscles and gritted my teeth, to keep myself from crying out when the damned cane hit my skin again, harsh and unforgiving. He waited quite long, again, before the next strike came. I made an involuntary sound, annoyed with myself for not staying silent. It’s just a caning . Then I heard him sigh again, and raised my head in confusion as he tossed the can down on the table.

“William,” he said quietly. “Remember what I told you. You are supposed to get twelve hits, but they only count if you count them.”

I cried out, then, angry and frustrated. “Fuck you.”

“Watch your mouth.” He took the cane again and tapped my thighs with it, not hitting, just warning. A shiver ran through me, one of my legs involuntarily kicking out a bit.

“Actually, you could fuck me very comfortably in this position,” I said.

“Be silent.”

“Wouldn’t it be better? Fucking me instead?”

He didn't respond for a long moment, but I did not dare to turn my head back and look at him.

“This is a punishment, William,” he sighed after a long pause.

“I know, but–”

“Silence. Count.”

The cane swished and landed with a thud. “One,” I murmured.

“Nice,” he said, and I could imagine him nodding. “Seems you can behave when you want to.”

I didn't answer. Before I could even process my thoughts, the cane landed again.

“Two,” I gasped, my body jerking.

The sensations overwhelmed me. The cold air against my skin, the hard wood of the desk now warm beneath me. The pressure of his hand on my lower back, pushing me down. The sickening hiss of the cane cutting through the air, followed by that awful thud against my skin.

And of course it was painful…but the worst, most horrible, unimaginable part of it was when I felt the strange, oddly out-of-place tug low in my belly—and I realised—horror crashing through me—that I was getting hard.

I panicked, then. It was around the eighth strike, and Locke was stepping back, raising the cane for the next hit, when I leapt up from the table and darted to the door. He said something, and my hand was already on the doorknob when I heard the sharp click of the lock. I turned around, feeling like dying from shame, especially when I saw his gaze flicker briefly to my lap and probably see my predicament clearly - I don't know what he saw, I didn’t dare to look down. 

“Let me go,” I hissed between gritted teeth, then realised that standing there was probably the most humiliating thing in the world, ever, so I took a few big steps towards my clothes, hand shaking as I fumbled for my trousers.

He caught my wrist. Didn’t say anything, just grabbed my wrist in an iron fist and yanked me back to my feet, away from the messy pile of clothes.

“Let me go!” I almost shrieked, and— all right, I probably did shriek, and stomped my feet and squirmed, and tried to kick him, in the stomach or maybe lower, if I succeed— but he was just standing there, holding me away at arm’s length, and I couldn’t get out of his grip.

“It’s all right,” he said at last, in an excruciatingly calm voice.

I twisted, desperate, and without thinking, I leaned in and bit him, sinking my teeth into the flesh of his hand. I imagined him letting go, releasing me, and I’d run, run far from this room, this whole situation…

But Locke didn’t even flinch. He didn’t react. Not a muscle moved in his body.

“It’s all right,” he repeated, still so calm, even as a few drops of blood gathered where my teeth had broken his skin. “It’s all right.”

“You—bastard,” I hissed. “You fucking sick bastard.”

He let me go then. Looked hurt, but I didn’t care. He didn’t even move as I hurriedly put on my shirt and pants, the latter with a slight grimace from the pain. I stopped by the door, looking back at him, still standing there motionless and looking at me in a very sad and disappointed way. I made a flick of my wrist, full of emotions I couldn’t name, and the lock opened. I stormed out.

 

 

I paced back and forth across my room.

I thought about the many voices in the Council who had wanted me at least flogged, if not imprisoned. I couldn’t imagine how Locke, and the few others who might have agreed with him, managed to arrange such a lenient punishment for me.

I should go back and ask for the flogging. That’s what I should have done from the beginning, months ago, instead of this damn apprenticeship. I was never meant to be an apprentice. I’ll ask for the hundred lashes I should have gotten originally, head held high, so I don’t bring shame to Locke, and then I’ll leave and never show my face again. 

Just go to the Council and…

But I didn’t. I kept pacing, my teeth clenched against the dull ache of my body as the fabric of my trousers brushed against my skin.

Locke hadn’t come after me. He’d said, at the edge of that cursed Durnock Forest, that he’d searched for me when I didn’t show up for morning training. He was right—my room was a complete mess. Hastily, I grabbed a few pieces of clothes and tossed them into the wardrobe, slamming the door shut.

I thought about Locke’s face, as he watched me leave. I thought about his cold voice, telling me to strip. The cane slicing into my skin. His big and warm hand on my back, keeping me down…

I couldn’t even bear twelve lashes. I’d been caned before, of course; but I wasn’t afraid then, wasn’t fighting it, and also, and especially , wasn’t getting hard. But, of course, back then it wasn’t about Locke,  I didn’t fantasise for months about—

Nothing, nothing, nothing. 

 

 

In the end, I went back to Locke’s study. I didn’t knock, just opened the door. He was behind his desk, reading some papers with a furrowed brow, but he put them aside as I stepped in.

“William,” he said in a cold, measured tone.

“Can we start again, please?” I said quickly, before I lost all my nerve and ran away. He raised half an eyebrow. The cane was nowhere to be seen.

“No.”

“But you said we’d start again if I messed up,” my voice sounded weak, almost desperate.

“Yes. I changed my mind.”

“You can’t change your mind about–”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “I don’t think you’re the one who makes the decisions here, William.” He said my name with a strange emphasis, his eyes narrowing in that maddeningly unreadable way.

“But–”

“No. You have had enough.”

“But it was nothing! I can take twelve times more!” I stepped closer, gesturing wildly. “I have before!”

He looked at me, his face tired, a small wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows.

“You have been caned before?” he asked, but did not look surprised.

“Of course.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

He looked at me with mild disbelief, then shook his head. “Sit down.”

For a moment, I stayed stubbornly upright; then stepped forward and flopped down in the chair in front of his desk. Tried and failed to hide a painful grimace. 

“I know you have some reasons to be secretive about your past–”

“I’m not secretive.”

“Please don’t interrupt me. As I said, I know you have some important reason for keeping secrets,” he gave me a hard stare before I could interrupt again. “But since you arrived, you haven’t sent or received a single letter, never asked to go out and meet someone, never–”

“I didn’t come here to talk about my missing social life.”

“And I asked you not to interrupt me.”

He glared at me, and after some time I looked away, hanging my head. “Sorry.”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Tell me, have you had any bad experiences with being caned?"

“Could being caned be a good experience?” I asked with a frown.

“Today, you had quite a powerful reaction–”

“You are making fun of me!”  I leapt from my chair, half-thinking I’d storm out again, but instead just turned on my heel and marched to the window.

“I am not,” he said, his voice sharp. “And now–”

“Don’t mention it ever again,” I muttered, staring out at the rooftops. “It did not happen.”

“Sit back down, please,” he waved toward the chair, and I obeyed, making a big hassle of it. His gaze was not hard on me, rather curious, questioning. “We are going to have a conversation.”

“I didn’t come here to have a conversation–”

“As I told you before, you are not the one making the decisions here.”

“I came to finish the... thing. Not to talk.”

“I’m glad you are here,” he said with a quick, faint smile. “Now listen to me, please, without interruptions, and–”

“I just don’t like it when ‘talking’ means that you ask a bunch of questions and expect me to answer them.”

He straightened, his eyes running over my face, leaving me suddenly tense under his scrutiny.

“I’ll answer your questions, too,” he said, his voice low. “But yes, I’d like you to answer mine.” He held my gaze, and I felt the silence stretch, heavy and unbreakable, until finally I gave in and shrugged.

“Fine,” I muttered.

“Tell me about your past,” he said simply.

For a moment, we sat there in total silence. 

I swallowed.

“My– my past?” I said. “What about my past?” He was just looking at me with an unreadable face, not really helping me out. “Well, it’s not really interesting. Like a few days ago in the past I had such an amazing cottage pie for dinner. I hope you did try it too, because it was–” I glanced at him, saw his expression, and looked away, quickly shutting my mouth.

He shook his head a bit, sighing. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” I agreed, my voice dropping.

He waved an exasperated hand. “All right. Just tell me who caned you before.”

I bit my lip, my hands twisting in my lap. I glanced at him, then quickly looked away again. Took a deep breath, opened my mouth, but then closed it without a word.

“That’s not a hard question,” said Locke, his voice laced with some impatience now. “Someone from your family? Your father? A teacher?”

I snorted at the thought, but then quickly cleared my face at his questioning gaze. “No,” I said. “The monks.”

“The monks?”

“Yeah. Fhearnan, mostly. He was actually really kind, but expected me to follow his rules. The high priest, if I did something really bad or dangerous. Some of the others. I– I lived in a monastery. The monks were big supporters of order and discipline too. You would have gotten along well.”

“A monastery,” repeated Locke.

“Yeah,” I nodded. “It was never a secret,” I added, hoping to sound casual. Suddenly, keeping it secret felt like such a foolish thing to do. If I’d just told everyone that I lived in a monastery, no one would have questioned me or accused me of hiding anything. And it would have even been true. 

Locke watched me with thoughtful eyes. “Did you like living there?”

“It wasn’t bad,” I shrugged.

“Do you miss it?”

“Sometimes.”

“Why didn’t you contact the monastery? You could have sent a letter. I would have even allowed you to meet the monks.”

“Yeah, thanks,” I murmured. “To tell them I was caught stealing?”

“Months have passed since then.”

A short but uncomfortable silence hung between us.

“I– They–” I let out a long breath. “They don’t know I’m a magician.”

Locke blinked, and he was silent for some time. His eyes first widened, then narrowed, and I could almost see the thoughts running through his head. 

“That explains a lot,” he said eventually. “Your magical knowledge was – in some areas, it still is – lacking. Though… even when we met, you were quite skilled for someone who kept his abilities a secret before. How did you learn?”

“In secret,” I shrugged. “You know…stealing magical books…hiding to practise spells…disappearing for hours to read…”

“Don’t tell me no one noticed.”

“Well…I think in the last few years, Fhearnan suspected. But– you know, as I was learning more and more, I was also getting better at hiding what I did.”

Locke’s face was equally contemplative and displeased. “I see, but could you tell me why you even choose to keep being a magician a secret?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

He tilted his head to the side, his eyes hardening. “William,” he said, staring me down. “Being a magician is a great honour. Studying at the Academy is the finest opportunity any young magician could hope for. Don’t tell me that you threw all of that away and chose to train yourself in secret, just because... you don’t know ?

“I didn’t want to go to the Academy,” I shrugged. In some way, it was even true. 

“William–”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I snapped, forgetting that I was trying to be casual. Oops .

He blinked, surprised, then just sighed. “Tell me why they punished you.”

I snorted, rolling my eyes. “For being... me?”

His eyes seemed, for a moment—sad? “How did you react, then?”

“I was mostly bored.”

“ William .”

“I don't know, right? It was painful, sure, but I could endure it. Nothing like–” I couldn't finish this sentence.

“Did I hit you harder today?”

“No.” I paused. “Have you ever been caned?”

He ignored my question. “What was different?”

You, you asshole?

“I don’t know. Just do it again, so we can leave this topic behind forever? I won’t obstruct you this time.”

“I’m not going to cane you again.”

I made an exasperated growl. “Then what’s going to happen? Am I going to get flogged? Tossed into prison? They’re gonna give me that hundred lashes finally? You said you will start again if I miscounted or moved or spoke out of turn. I think I did all of these, didn’t I? Let’s start again then and get it over with.”

“Seems you were listening to me, after all.” His voice held an infuriating calm.

“I always listen to you.” 

He stood up and went to the cabinet. Albeit I insisted that he should cane me again, my stomach made an anxious flip at the thought that he is going to get the cane. Instead he sorted through some of the things inside, then came back with a small jar.

“This is a healing salve,” he said. “Apply it to your wounds.”

“I don’t need it.” I met his gaze, defiant, though I didn’t even know why I still resisted.

“Take it.” His voice was hard and unrelenting. 

I raised my hand and took the little jar. It was strangely cold, probably having some magical cooling properties.

“You could apply it,” I said, and it would have been casual if my voice didn’t break, “if you want it that much.”

He looked at me with a hard stare. “Would you like that?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

A hint of a smile ghosted across his face, one that sent heat creeping up my neck. “Sometimes, William, you’re hard to understand,” he murmured, shaking his head slightly, half-amused, half-exasperated. He returned to his desk, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, looking at me as if studying a complex problem. “Let’s talk about your reaction,” he said, his tone steely.

“Let's not,” I said.

“I told you it was all right,” he continued calmly, “and yet you still ran away.”

I shifted in my seat, casting my eyes downwards. “I told you I don't want to talk about this.”

“Then don’t ask me to apply the salve to your naked bottom. Or, as you also said before, to fuck you.”

I looked up, mortified. There was a really smug smile in the corner of his mouth.

“I have said, multiple times, that your body’s reaction was totally all right,” he continued in a voice so casual like we were just chatting about the dinner. “I don’t know what feelings or thoughts went through you, but so many things, and even pain or humiliation could arouse someone.”

“I’m definitely feeling humiliation now, but not a hint of arousal,” I replied flatly.

“I may have mistaken,” he nodded. “But, actually... I don't think I was.”

“Nice to see that your self-confidence is intact.”

“I see how you look at me, William.”

“I–” Even I don’t know how I look at you. With hatred? With annoyance? With disrespect? With–craving? “Maybe. But it’s not important because you clearly hate me and I won’t be here long, anyway, since you refuse to finish my punishment and the Council will flog me with a few hundred hits and I will probably be dead by the end of it–”

“You're right,” he nodded sharply. “You are the most infuriating little thing I have ever known.”

“Oh.”

“But no,” he continued, his voice softening just slightly. “I don’t hate you. Not always.” He looked at me, considering, before adding, “If I manage to overlook all your audacity.”

“Oh.”

“So,” he said, leaning back, voice taking on a steady, almost encouraging note. “If you want, and if you feel comfortable with it, we can talk about what happened, and maybe what you’d like to happen in the future.”

“But it was…” My voice was barely audible. “Fuck, it was a punishment ,” I whispered. 

“Yes,” he nodded, holding my gaze with unnerving calm. “But your mind, your body—they were tense, overwhelmed. Sometimes, sensations blur under intensity.”

“But I have never found anything about caning… um, you know… arousing .”

“Of course not,” he said gently. “But what about being naked in front of me? Bending over my desk with your bare bottom up? Hearing my voice, commanding you?”

I swallowed, suddenly finding it strangely hard to breathe. 

“Being obedient for once, maybe,” he added with a quick, but quite wicked grin. I felt the top of my cheeks burning.

It's too much. 

“Will you ever fuck me or not?” I asked, voice sharper than I’d meant.

He raised a single eyebrow, unimpressed. “I don’t like that tone.”

“But will you?”

“Will you obey me?”

“I’m not letting you fuck me in exchange for following your every order,” I bit out, crossing my arms.

“That’s not how it works,” he said.

“Fuck you.” I stood up, rushed to the door, but found it closed, the second time that day. “You asshole,” I hissed.

“Why do you think you can talk to me like that and get away with it?”

He stood up, went to the bookcase, and picked out a big volume bound in dark leather. I groaned when he held it out for me. It was the Rulebook of the Council , an ancient and the most boring book ever written in the history of magicians. Probably in the history of non-magical folks, too. 

“I really should give you your own copy,” he sighed. “You will read it, again, as many times as you need, until I can ask you anything and you can answer me without any fault. Please give explicit attention to Chapter 17 , about the principles of communication. Understood?”

I took the book from his hand. I wasn’t thinking – maybe I should have, but of course I wasn’t – and suddenly, before he could react, I casted a silent spell and set his precious rulebook on fire, in hot, all-consuming flames. We both watched in silence as the smell of burnt paper filled the air and charred pages fell from my fingers, until there was nothing left but ashes on his expensive, intricately sewn carpet.

I looked up. His eyes were dangerously dark. We were standing so close I could see a very small muscle twitching in his left eyebrow. 

Then he lifted a hand, and touched my face, and though his fingers were gentle, barely brushing my skin, somehow it still felt a bit like a slap. I didn’t even dare to breathe. “Oh, William,” he said in a low voice. “You are so endearingly foolish.”

I swallowed. He stepped even closer, his boots smearing the ashes of the book into the carpet. His fingers shifted on my face, cupping my chin, tilting my head up until our eyes met. My heart pounded wildly in my chest. 

“You want to keep defying me?” he murmured, his voice soft but unyielding, laced with something dark, almost dangerous. 

I glanced down, but his fingers hardened, forcing my head higher, almost uncomfortably, until I reluctantly met his gaze again. His eyes were intense, his head tilted just slightly. I gulped, and I was sure he felt it with his fingers on my chin. His gaze darkened. “Maybe”, I muttered.

Locke’s eyes narrowed, his lips curling into something dark and satisfied. He took another step forward, and now there was almost no space left between us, and I could feel his warm breath brushing my skin. “Hmm,” he said slowly. “Do you want to see what happens when I have had enough of your disobedience?”

I tried to breathe. I wanted to pull away, to at least turn my head, but my body –that traitor– refused to cooperate. Heat was building in my stomach. “Maybe?” I repeated, my voice cracking at the end.

His fingers tightened on my jaw, and his grip was almost painful now, grounding me in place. “I could make you forget every ounce of that defiance,” he said, sure and threatening. His voice dropped even lower. “Would you want that?”

I was sure he was enjoying the effect his words had on me. I turned my head away, and with a lazy switch of his wrist, he turned it back easily. Our eyes met. “Yes,” I said. 

Something flickered in his eyes. “Good,” he nodded, and I gulped and wanted to run away and hide. Or to kick him. Or to kiss him. His lips were so close– “Then go to your room.”

“ ...what? ”

He stepped back, and the tension between us broke. I almost fell forward without him keeping me in place. 

“Go to your room,” he repeated, focusing on a cleaning spell for the ashes staining his carpet. His eyes swept me once, and a slight frown crossed his face. “This is not how my apprentice should present himself.” I looked down: my shirt, still unevenly buttoned from dressing hastily after the caning, hung crooked, and my trousers were crumpled against my half-buckled boots. “Get yourself together. If you truly want this, come back here in fifteen minutes. If not, stay in your room.”

I nodded, unable to speak, my fingers fumbling with the hem of my shirt. He stepped away, leading me to the door. He held it open for me. I blinked up at him, dazed.

“Fifteen minutes,” he repeated. “If you decide to come, remember that I value punctuality. Be late, and you will be punished. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” I said, gulping. 

“Good. Make your decision.”

I stepped out, and the door closed behind me with a soft click. I shuddered in the cold air.

Notes:

I'm suuuuper excited (and insecure) about this chapter! I wanted to have some build-up before we dive into this, but then I realised that building a relationship is bloody complicated. I didn’t want it to feel sudden or forced, and on one hand, I was really looking forward to getting to this point, but on the other, I was terrified that I wouldn’t be able to write it the way I wanted.
Please let me know what you think! <3

Chapter 24: Together

Summary:

Things continue to happen

Notes:

The best chapter summary, isn't it?
Also, I had to update the tags.

I knew I was late. As I raised my hand to knock on Locke’s door, I wondered why I had dragged my feet this much.

Locke opened the door. He stood tall and assertive in the doorway, wearing shiny boots, black trousers, and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. I swallowed as my gaze slid down to his forearm—his toned muscles, the smooth skin, the bluish veins near his wrist. Then I quickly looked away, bit my lip, and wished I could sink into the ground. Well, actually, I only needed to take a few steps back to tumble down the stairs, which would be a bit like sinking—just far less graceful and probably a lot more painful–

“William,” Locke said. His face was unreadable, his voice smooth. 

I swallowed again. What was I supposed to say? Councillor Locke? Good evening? Sorry, my mistake, I’m not here at all?

He stepped aside, gesturing for me to enter. Without a word, I crossed the threshold, unsure of where to look.

His study looked exactly as it always did—filing cabinets, bookshelves, a few chairs. His neat writing desk showed no sign of the fact that not long ago I had been lying on it, naked, while he had punished me. In the meantime, it had grown dark outside, and the black windows reflected the yellowish light from the light spheres. The dark blue carpet was spotless.

Locke didn’t say a word. He simply closed the door behind me and led me to another. I’d never really paid much attention to the doors leading out of his office—I assumed they led to his private rooms, but I wasn’t dumb enough to ever want to break into them.

The room we entered had a much softer, more intimate atmosphere. Dark, intricately carved furniture lined the walls, and towering bookshelves reached up to the ceiling. Plush armchairs were arranged by a glowing fireplace, the flames casting flickering shadows. A large, stunning painting above the mantle depicted constellations—so vivid and detailed it felt like I was staring directly at the night sky.

Locke walked to one of the armchairs and sat down. His posture was relaxed, legs crossed, one hand casually on the armrest. He looked me up and down, and suddenly I was really glad that not only had I washed and put on clean, neat clothes, but I’d even made an attempt to comb my curly hair as best as I could. I shifted from foot to foot, unsure of how to stand, clenching and unclenching my hands. Trying to appear calm and casual.

“Come here,” he said at last. He didn’t specify exactly where, so I stepped closer, slowly, hesitantly. “Come,” he repeated, and I kept moving until I was so close to him that if he lifted his hand, he could have touched me. “Do you know what’s going to happen now?” he asked softly.

I swallowed hard. My eyes flicked to the blazing fire in the hearth, then to the books on the shelf, and finally to the dark window. I shook my head. “Not exactly.”

“Would you like it to happen?” His gaze was steady, searching.

A deep breath, a slight tremor. “Yes.”

He reached out and took my hand. His fingers were warm and soft, but held me firmly.

“You need to know that I won’t be gentle with you,” he said. “There’s no place for your usual rule-breaking and attitude here. You might think that you are in control of anything, but in time, you will realise that you are wrong.”

I didn’t respond. His eyes seemed darker than usual, and the flickering light from the fire cast sharp, dancing shadows across his face. He didn’t look away from me, and despite how unsettling it was, I couldn’t bring myself to look away either.

“If at any point,” he continued slowly, “you feel you truly can’t continue, you will say the words, ‘I have met my limit.’ I will not be angry. In fact, I will be angry if you don’t say them when you need to. Do you understand?”

I nodded. His face was so serious a small line appeared between his brows.

“Give me a verbal answer, please.”

“Yes,” I said, then cleared my throat quickly. “I understand.”

“Repeat the words.”

“I’ve met my limit?”

“Good.” He squeezed my hand briefly. “Now, take off your coat. Put it on the back of that armchair.”

I nodded, my fingers fumbling with the buttons. He didn’t take his eyes off me as I slid my arms out of the sleeves. I stepped a bit away to carefully drape it over the back of the chair.

He motioned me back, and when I stepped closer, he reached up and—and began to undo my trousers. Instinctively, I raised an arm to stop him, but at his disapproving glance, my hand froze in the air. For a moment, we locked eyes, then I lowered my gaze, my hand falling back to my side as I tried to stand still. With a swift movement, he undid my trousers, then his arm wrapped around my waist, slipping under the waistband. I shivered as his fingers slid beneath my underwear. Then, in one quick motion, he pulled down my clothes. One arm held my waist, the other gripped my upper arm, and before I knew it, the ground disappeared from under my feet, and I let out a startled gasp as he pulled me across his lap.

“Stay still,” he ordered. A strong hand pressed down between my shoulder blades, and my arms shot out to support me, the carpet soft under my fingers. He shifted in his chair, widening his legs, and suddenly my feet were dangling, unable to touch the ground.

Oh, shit. 

“Still,” he repeated quietly. I fidgeted a bit, trying to find some balance, biting my lip, squeezing my eyes shut. 

Then he put his other hand on my bottom, his touch gentle and a bit cold, and I froze, motionless. The only sounds in the room were the soft crackling of the fire and my ragged breaths.

Fuck, I’m bare-assed over his knees. He can see–

“Beautiful,” he said softly, his fingers brushing over– fuck, brushing over the welts on my bottom, tender and painful and mortifying. I squirmed, and his hand pressed harder between my shoulder blades. “I said still.” 

I grunted, crossed my ankles in the air and tensed all my muscles, biting my lip. He kept his hand on my back, and the other on my bottom, still but unyielding. I tried to take deeper breaths. My head fell forward.

“Good,” he murmured. I made a face but tried to stay still as he patted my bottom idly. “Do you know why you are in this position?”

To admire your carpet up close? Really, it’s stunning craftsmanship.

“No?” I said. My voice sounded much higher than I wanted. 

“Hm. What did I tell you about being late?”

“That… that I should give you some extra time to rehearse your lectures?

A quick, sharp slap, on my already sore bottom. My body jerked forward instinctively, my legs kicking up, my hands losing their grip on the carpet. I struggled to steady myself. I could hear Locke’s quiet exhale behind me, and…he sounded amused. His grip on my ankle was firm as he pushed my legs back into place. 

“Try again,” he said, in a voice so calm it made my stomach flip. “What did I tell you about being late?”

“I, um..,” How could I possibly preserve any shred of dignity in this situation? I felt my face burning. “You said…not to be?”

Another slap. It wasn’t hard, but still it made me tense my muscles for a moment. Then he brushed his fingers over my bottom, over the welts, and it was even worse, making me shiver, making goosebumps rising on my arms. 

“Not exactly,” he said, nonchalant. “I seem to recall saying there would be consequences if you were late. Does that ring a bell?”

Reluctantly, I nodded, closing my eyes. His fingers dug into my ass, gripping the raw skin, and I clenched my teeth, struggling to stay silent.

“I asked you a question,” he said, and there was some warning in his voice now. 

“Yes,” I snapped, struggling to get away from his hands. He let out a dissatisfied grunt, and then his fingers slid lower—he slapped my thighs, making me spread my legs a bit—and then his fingers were on my balls —

I went completely still.

I hadn’t even realised how hard I was until now.

“That’s better,” he murmured, his fingers gently folding my balls. “So, I said you’ll be punished if you’re late. Did you do it on purpose?”

I tried to bite back the high and slightly pathetic sound I made when his fingers wrapped around my balls. 

“Breathe,” he said with a low chuckle. “And answer me when I ask you a question, William.”

“I don’t know,” I said, panting. He was not squeezing, but he kept his fingers firm over my skin, and I did not dare to flinch. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

I breathed out shakily as his hand moved back to rest on my bare bottom.

“Maybe?” he repeated, almost mockingly. His fingers traced one of the raised stripes, his touch both feather-light and agonisingly precise. I twitched, just a bit, and his hand immediately pressed harder on my back. “Careful,” he said softly. “You’re already struggling, and we’ve barely begun.”

“I’m not struggling,” I said, then gave an offended cry as he struck me with his palm, the slap loud in the room. 

“No?” he replied, not even trying to hide his amusement. His hand shifted to the curve of my bottom, his fingers pressing into the tender flesh. “Then what would you call all these fussing?”

“I—” I choked as he swatted me again, the sharp crack echoing in the room. My legs kicked up reflexively, my hands scrabbling against the carpet for balance.

“You are adorable like this,” he murmured. His hand smoothed over the spot he’d just struck, his touch lingering just long enough to make me shiver. “But I did tell you to stay still, didn’t I?”

I bit my lip, refusing to answer. His hand moved lower, cupping the underside of my bottom, and I froze as his fingers brushed the sensitive skin where the cane had landed hardest. The sharp ache made my toes curl.

“All right,” he said finally, and although he sighed deeply, his tone didn’t sound like someone who truly regretted the situation. “Now I’m going to spank you. You will lie here, as still as you can, and keep your mouth shut. Understood?”

“I was staying still until you started hitting me,” I murmured, barely audible.

He huffed, and his hand landed on my bottom sharply. I groaned, but had hardly enough time to process what’s happening, because he raised his hand and slapped it back down on my other cheek. I gritted my teeth. The pain was sharp, making my entire body tense. 

The slaps echoed slightly in the room around us, and I clenched my fists against the carpet, determined to stay still… but my legs shivered, and I raised my ankles, and he folded them back in place, again and again, giving me sharper slaps in return. My breath was becoming faster and faster, more irregular, too loud in my head. 

“Stay still,” he sighed. 

I groaned, and tried to stay still– But how the hell was I supposed to stay still in this situation? My bottom was burning under his slaps, and the only break he gave me between the blows was to grip the bruised skin. 

Another sharp spank landed, and I couldn’t help it—I jerked against his hold, the motion involuntary. I bit my lip, hard, trying to muffle a whimper, but I couldn’t avoid a soft gasp as he hit me again, even harder than before.

“Still,” he repeated, pushing my ankles back down again. His voice was cold, almost impatient. I squeezed my eyes shut, but he kept spanking me, and the pain was just getting worse and worse, relentless. I started to feel dizzy. I raised a hand to my bottom, touching the hot skin for a moment, then he grabbed my wrist and pinned it, wordlessly, to my lower back. I panted, then yelled out, stunned and confused, as he shifted his leg out from my tights and swung it over them, making it impossible for me to squirm anywhere. 

For a moment I wondered if his palm was hurting, because my bottom was throbbing, and he continued hitting me in a quick rhythm, keeping his other hand on my wrist. I clenched my fingers into a fist, tight, my nails digging into my palm. I hissed, and he kept going, undeterred. I tried to yank my hand out from his grip. I tried to kick up, but he kept my thighs firmly under his leg, and my trousers were around my ankles now, and all I could do was aimlessly kick into the air. I squeezed my ass, tried to push forward, then up, or anywhere, just away from this pain, still growing, hot and blazing. 

I cried out at the next blow. “Okay, okay,” I panted, and he stopped, squeezing my wrist but keeping his other hand away from my ass. “I understand. I’m sorry. I won’t be late again. You can stop now.”

His hand came back to my bottom, not hitting, just resting on the skin. It was still so painful I tried to squirm away. 

Then I heard him laugh softly, a low, amused sound. “You think you have any say in this?” His voice was low, the tone almost mocking. “You think you can stop this just by saying the right thing?”

“No, I–”

“It’s charming, really.”

“No, but–” Another slap came down on my raw skin, the sting making my chest tighten. I tried to shift away, but his hand stayed firm on my wrist, pinning me in place. The weight of his palm was still on my throbbing ass.

“Please,” I gasped, the word slipping out in desperation. I bit my lip, trying to push down the frustration, but then another slap landed, the sharp sound echoing in the room. My whole body jerked. “Shit, I’m sorry, really! Please–”

I could hear his slow, steady breaths as he leaned into me, his voice low and dangerous when he spoke again. “I don't care how sorry you are. But you can keep begging. It’s really nice.”

I shut my mouth, swallowing. Another slap came down on my raw skin, then another and another, each harder than the last, and I gasped, my body jerking, trying to push up, trying to twist free. I couldn't stop the strangled sound that slipped out of my mouth.

“Stay still,” he murmured, grabbing my waist and pulling me back, closer to his body. I shivered as he ran a hand over my thigh, lightly, barely touching my skin. I whined, indignantly, and his hand was already on my ass and he started to spank me again, hard and quick and my breath hitched and my muscles ached from how tense I was, and it felt like an eternity passed, here, over his knee, his palm slapping loudly on my skin, already hot and tender and welted–

Then there was a hard, echoing slap, and my eyes were burning as he gripped my ass, hard, digging his fingers deep into my flesh– 

Then his fingers slid lower. He shifted beneath me, making me spread my legs. His fingers found my balls, and I gave a low hiss as his light touch slid over them. 

Then his fingers were around my cock. My brain struggled to understand how could I still be hard, but my brain wasn’t exactly in the best state to think about things like this, or actually to think about anything at all, because he started to move his palm, slowly, up and down on me, and my mind kind of went blank, not even caring how loud my moan sounded, or how I thrust my hips forward, into his warm touch. 

It was over almost embarrassingly quickly, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. His touch was hot and firm, growing faster and faster. His other hand still held my wrist behind my back, and I struggled, but this time to get closer, to get more, feeling the tightening in my stomach, in my thighs, in my balls, deep and hot and almost painful–

“Good,” he murmured. “Good boy.”

He held me through it, stroking my legs, his other hand shifting from my wrist to take my hand, still keeping me in place, grounded.  

 

Everything was still. 

The only noises in the room were the soft crackling of the fire, and now and then, the wind’s rattling on the windowpane. 

Otherwise, everything was still.

I was still, too—frozen, my body heavy against Locke’s leg, his thigh hard against my chest. My breathing was a bit uneven, but slow. My body was not trembling anymore. 

Locke kept a hand on my back, firm and big and warm.

What the hell happens now?

I shifted, and his hand became firmer on my skin, the one on my back slipping up to my neck, brushing into my hair. “How are you feeling?”

“How am I feeling?” I shrugged, a bit slow. “Marvellous? Like my ass is about to catch fire spontaneously? But other than that, marvellous.”

He huffed, slapping my ass. I whimpered. “I have no objection to fetching the cane and starting this whole thing over from the beginning. Is that what you would like?”

I shook my head quickly. 

“I thought so,” he said, chuckling. “I think you are fine, then, if you are capable of talking to me like that.”

But he kept his hands on me, on my shoulders, on my arms, as he helped me to stand up, making sure I was moving slowly. He helped me dress up – I gritted my teeth and hissed at the pain – then sat me down on the other armchair, and half a minute later I was tucked in under a soft and warm blanket, holding a hot mug of tea. 

I took a small sip, the warmth spreading through my hands and into my chest. The tea was sweet, fruity. 

“You did good,” he said, sitting back into his chair. I looked at his posture, his legs, and remembered lying across them. I felt my face flush and took another quick sip of the tea. 

“Well, I–” I gave an anxious chuckle. “I didn’t really have much choice, had I?”

I could practically feel Locke’s gaze on me, steady and patient, as he let the silence stretch out between us. I shifted uncomfortably, pressing my palms to the hot mug.

“Honestly, it wasn’t even that big of a deal,” I said, not taking my eyes off the mug. “I mean, it was only your hand. What am I, five? That’s hardly the kind of thing worth–”

“Will,” he interrupted gently, but I ignored him.

“And yeah, a caning could hurt, but twelve hits? That’s just–”

“William.” Harsher this time. “I said you did good.”

“It was just a bit of discomfort,” I waved.

He didn’t react immediately. I risked a glance at him, expecting annoyance, but I was met with that calm, unreadable look he liked so much. 

“You always have a choice,” he said, his voice soft and gentle. There was a small curve in the edge of his lips.

I blinked, thrown off. “What does that even mean?” I asked, a little more sharply than I intended.

“It means,” he said, leaning forward slightly, “that you could’ve given up at any point. You could’ve made excuses, refused to finish, fought me harder than you did. But you didn’t.” His voice turned a bit teasing. “You always have a choice. I’m not saying you don’t make a lot of really bad ones…but you did a good job now.”

“But–”

“And now you’re sitting there trying to convince me it was no big deal because you can’t stand to hear me say that I’m proud of you.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but he raised a hand, and it made me fell silent. My face burned hotter than the tea in my hands. 

“It was embarrassing,” I said eventually. 

“The spanking?” he asked. 

“No– well, yes, that too, obviously. But I meant– I don't want to get a public flogging, of course. But having the whole Council argue about my punishment, and then deciding in twelve strokes of a cane…that’s how they punish older children. It is embarrassing.”

He looked at me, thoughtful, for a long time, before answering. “I understand.”

I glared at him, thankful for the room being so dark around us. “Really?”

“Really.”

“I thought you were going to say something like… like I should be grateful for the Council’s leniency, or for you, for convincing them to be more tolerant, or that you can flog me anytime if I miss it so much…”

Locke’s lip twitched. “Why would I need to tell you that? It seems to me that you know it very well yourself.”

I rolled my eyes, turning away, shifting lower in the armchair. 

“You handled yourself well,” he said. 

“I didn’t,” I said, remembering the way I fled his office after the caning. 

“You did,” he repeated.

I shrugged. “Yeah, sure. You can put a plaque up in my honour. Here lived Will, who survived twelve measly cane strokes .”

Locke raised an eyebrow, the faintest smirk pulling at his lips. “I will put this on your door if you want.”

“It wasn’t even twelve strokes,” I muttered.

“I think it was,” he said, thoughtful. “You didn’t count the first few. I think if we add those as well, you could reach twelve.”

“Amazing achievement,” I murmured. 

He huffed. “You know what would be an ‘amazing achievement’? If you got twelve times that amount the next time I have to use the tracking spell to find you.”

Oh . “All right,” I said quickly.

Locke sighed, a soft, resigned sound. “Drink your tea until it’s warm.”

I bit my lip, debating a reply, but in the end, I simply raised the mug to my lips. It felt nice—relaxing into the chair, tilting my head back, pulling the blankets snugly up to my neck.

The fire crackled softly, and warmth spread from my hands through my chest. The room was so still, and my body felt heavy, slow.

Locke’s gaze was unreadable, but this time, I didn’t mind it as much. I closed my eyes for a moment, and when I opened them again, he was staring into the fire, calm and silent. 

I closed my eyes once more.

Notes:

Your comments made me soooo happy, thank you *.*

Chapter 25: A Hundred Inspiring Ways to Die

Summary:

Training, writing, a little bit of talking.

Notes:

Hi,
I hope you're all having a really nice week! ^^

I woke up under a soft duvet.

The bed was firmer than my own, but the bedding was comfortable and fresh, and the pillow beneath my head luxuriously soft. For a moment, I simply blinked at the white pillow, feeling well-rested and relaxed—and then I sat up suddenly.

It hurt to sit.

I was alone. The walls around me were covered in dark blue wallpaper, and the furniture was made of the same dark wood, with the same elegant carvings, as the other room, the one where last night–

The other side of the bed was empty, the pillow smoothed, the blanket neatly folded—but I was absolutely certain I was in Locke’s bedroom.

In his bed.

I scrambled out from under the duvet as quickly as if the bed had caught fire. One of my legs got tangled up in the blanket, and I ended up hopping on one foot beside the bed as I tried to free myself. I felt strange: pleasantly rested, yet my whole body ached. It wasn’t just my bottom – it felt as though I had muscle soreness throughout my entire body.

Thick curtains hung over the windows. I pulled one aside to look out. Beyond the dark outline of the city, the horizon was beginning to brighten…

Training.

Locke—that asshole—hadn’t woken me for the morning training.

I rolled my eyes.

I rolled my eyes and paused only briefly in front of the bookshelf, running a finger along the spine of a single book before hurrying out of the room. I bolted through the lounge and into Locke’s office, then dashed down the empty hallways of the Sanctum, across a few staircases and passageways. Once I reached my room, I hastily threw on my training clothes and set off again, through more corridors and down long flights of stairs, all the way to the enclosed training ground.

I skidded to a halt on the edge of the training ground, catching my breath. Locke was in the middle of a drill, his sword spinning in his hand so fast I could hardly follow its movements. I leaned against a column, trying to appear as calm and collected as possible.

Locke lowered his sword and gestured toward the practice weapons lining the wall. “You are late, but we still have some time to practise. Grab a blade.”

“Oh good,” I murmured, stepping to an alcove to pick up a wooden sword. “I was afraid I would miss the morning torture session entirely."

I didn’t hear him move. The wooden blade of his practice sword swept my legs out from under me, and before I could react, I was on the icy ground, the breath knocked from my lungs. Every part of me hurt—even more than it had before.

Groaning, I stared up at the dim morning sky. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Locke crouched down beside me, his sword resting casually across his knees. “You are sassy this morning.”

“And you don’t warn people before attacking them,” I shot back, groaning again as I rolled onto my side. “Isn’t that against the rules? I thought you liked rules.”

“Right now, I would like for you to learn some manners. And punctuality.”

“Great. And now, by falling to the ground, I learned how to arrive on time and simultaneously make my whole body hurt? All this with a single move? Truly, you’re a gifted teacher.”

“Up. Now.”

“Sure,” I muttered, dragging out the word as I lay there. “Just give me a year or two to recover.”

“Now.” He grabbed my arm and hauled me to my feet before I could protest. My eyes followed his fingers around my wrist, remembering how he’d held it yesterday—

I stumbled as he yanked me into the middle of the training ground, feeling every bruise, every sore muscle protesting the sudden movement. I shot him a glare, but he didn’t even flinch, his expression still as unreadable as ever.

He was already stepping into a drill, expecting me to follow. Groaning, I positioned my legs as best I could.

“You don’t need to suffer so dramatically,” he said, raising his sword. “We haven’t even started yet.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “This is not how I imagined starting my morning, you know.”

“We have spent a month practising this drill,” he reminded me, with that cool, unaffected tone that somehow made me more irritated. “I would like to see what you have learnt. First, we will go through it together. Focus.”

I squared my shoulders and raised my sword, trying to clear my mind, trying to forget the dull ache in my…body. 

“Are you ready?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder. He was standing with his legs far apart, his knees and ankles turned into the correct angles, his arms raised, his sword pointing to the left. 

I nodded. 

He raised an eyebrow, sizing me up. “Is this how you are starting this drill?”

I glanced down at myself, at my somewhat unsteady legs, at my slightly crooked stance. “Yeah?”

“ William . Straighten up. Lift your head. Put more strength in your arms. Move your leg a bit forward... not that one, the other. Like that.”

“Maybe if I wasn’t in so much pain—”

“I will put you in more pain if you keep talking,” he interrupted, his tone sharp but not unkind. “Now focus.”

I rolled my eyes behind closed lids but followed his lead.

Honestly, the drill wasn’t even that awful. We’d practised it a lot, and there had been moments before when I felt I could get through it properly: when my movements didn’t feel too slow, when my balance was steady. If I didn’t wallow too much in self-pity over the early-morning torture, I sometimes even enjoyed it—feeling my body grow stronger, handling the drill more smoothly and fluidly each time.

This morning, however, was not one of those times. Every movement felt awkward, my legs kept tripping over themselves, I was shivering in the cold, and my thoughts kept drifting back to what had happened the night before.

Locke gave me a disapproving glance when my sword slipped from my hand and fell to the ground with a sharp thud.

“Again,” he said.

“Can’t we just—”

“Again.”

Grumbling, I picked up the sword and got back into the starting position. This time, Locke guided me through the steps more slowly, breaking each movement into smaller, precise parts. It didn’t help. By the halfway point, I had fallen so far behind I had to skip several steps just to catch up.

“Again,” he said.

“But—”

“Again.”

With a sigh, I reset my stance. This time, I managed to get through most of the sequence relatively well—until my left foot slipped on an icy patch.

“Again,” said Locke.

“It’s not my fault the ground’s icy!” I snapped. “It’s freezing out here!”

“Again,” Locke replied calmly.

He made me repeat the drill twenty-six times. Twenty-six . And the twenty-sixth attempt wasn’t any better than the ones before it.

The night before—when everything had hurt and felt awkward and humiliating and vulnerable—there had still been something… gentle about Locke.

Now, there wasn’t a trace of it.

“All right, go have breakfast. We will try again tomorrow.”

“Because it's not going well enough? And it only took twenty-six tries for you to finally figure that out? I would have told you that on the–”

“Breakfast, William. Go.”

I bit my lip, then just nodded. Breakfast did sound good. 

 

I had wanted to complain to Sol about Locke’s torment this morning, but by the time I got to the Refectory, it was already empty, and then the forenoon’s class was being held by Councillor Wigmar, the Councillor of Ethical Magic Practices, who had loudly advocated for my imprisonment during my hearing, so I decided to keep silent during his lecture.

Councillor Wigmar droned on about something called symbiotic magical autonomy . It sounded interesting for about two minutes, then his voice faded into an unpleasant background noise in my mind.

At lunch, I opened my mouth to complain about how crazy, manic, and insane Locke was during the morning drills, but then I remembered what else Locke had done the night before, and I awkwardly shut my mouth. Sol looked at me questioningly for a while, but when I shook my head for the umpteenth time, he shrugged and told me how he’d finally managed to shape a multi-element conjuration using non-verbal magic, so I just nodded in acknowledgment.

“Councillor Mara said that she might be able to offer an elemental magic course in the spring semester—I can’t wait!” Sol said.

“I’ve never really used much elemental magic…” I said, pouring water into my cup.

“Really? Not even in the beginning? Before I went to the Academy, that was practically all I used,” Sol said, helping himself to another chicken leg. “It’s so straightforward and convenient. What’s your primary element?”

“Wind,” I said.

“Mine’s water,” he said with a grin. “Imagine—I used to think a magician’s first arcane moment would be something dramatic. You know, like the stories you hear about magicians whose powers manifest in spectacular ways?”

“Hm,” I said, putting some baked potato in my mouth. “Yeah.” I swallowed, barely chewing on the food. “And what happened?”

“My parents had guests over. We were sitting at the dinner table when my little sister knocked over a cup of water with her elbow. It was about to spill all over one of the ladies’ dresses. I reached out, like I could catch the water—and it stopped mid-air. Then it just flowed back into the cup.”

“That’s actually pretty spectacular,” I said.

“Well, my parents were completely shocked. They had planned for me to study the seven liberal arts, then law in the capital. Those plans got turned upside down.”

“Would you have liked to study law?” I asked.

“Maybe,” Sol shrugged. “But my parents also quickly realized that you can achieve much more as an apprentice. What about you? What was your first time with magic?”

I took a long sip of my water. “Nothing peculiar,” I shrugged. “The wind was, like, blowing.”

“Blowing?” repeated Sol. 

“Yeah,” I said, and stuffed my mouth with more potatoes. 

 

“These,” said Locke that afternoon, when we finished practising some sigils, and he was pushing three thick volumes onto the desk in front of me, “are about the Durnock Marshlands. If I remember correctly, you asked me to bring you books about them.”

“Yes?” I replied slowly, unsure where this was going.

“Good. These three books are the most comprehensive accounts we have on the Durnock Marshlands. I want you to read them.”

“All right,” I nodded, reaching for the books. The first one was an old-looking, thick volume with frayed pages. I glanced inside, and there were illustrations too. 

“And when you are done, you are going to write me an essay.” Locke added.

“An essay?” I looked up from a quite disturbing painting of some swamp wyrm swallowing its victim in whole. “About what?”

“About every conceivable way you could have died in those marshlands.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “I must’ve left my best quill in the swamp while I was running away from the monsters, can I borrow—”

“Don’t,” Locke said, his voice low and cutting. “This isn’t a joke.”

I stared at him, then at the books. I was curious about the Marshlands, and I wanted to read those books, but…

“Well, it really doesn’t sound like very much fun,” I muttered. 

“I bet dying in a swamp at the end of the world would have been much more fun, right?”

“No, I–”

“ William .” He shook his head. “Don’t.”

Groaning, I picked up the second book. It was shorter, but the text was tiny, cramped, and slightly blurred.

“How long?” I asked, eyeing him suspiciously. “Something simple, like: ‘I could have been eaten, drowned, poisoned, or vivisected. The end’?”

“Fifteen feet,” Locke said, ignoring my sarcasm.

I stared at him. “Fifteen feet? Why don't you make it a mile already?”

“Fifteen feet,” he repeated, as calm as ever. 

“I don’t even think I have parchment that long!”

“You can use two,” he shrugged. “I’m giving you three days.”

“Three days?” I let out an appalled laugh. “Wouldn't two be better? Or one? I bet an apprentice good enough for you could do it in just one day. Why not–”

“Hush,” he waved an impatient hand. “I’m serious. I want your essay on my desk in three days, and I want it to be thorough. Every possible risk. Every single thing that could have killed you, from the terrain to the creatures lurking there. I want to see just how much you understand about the dangers you blindly walked into.”

“But you know I didn’t just walk into anything. It was an accident. I’ve said this like…a thousand times?”

His eyes softened a bit, and he sighed, tossing the books into my hands.

“I think you have work to do,” he said. 

I sighed, too, the books heavy in my arms (but not as heavy as the realisation that my next three days were now completely ruined).

As I trudged toward the door, Locke added, “Oh, and Will?”

I paused, looking back.

“Don’t forget to include an analysis of how your own recklessness contributed to the risks you faced. I’m sure that will be enlightening.”

I made a face. “Of course,” I muttered, leaving the room and slamming the door behind me. 

 

I spent the next day nurturing incredibly ambivalent thoughts towards Locke. I was reading the books about the Durnock Marshlands, taking notes on the fascinating ways they can kill those who wander into them unprepared; and meanwhile I thought about the sound of his palm slapping against my skin, how I lay on his knee, how he pinned my hand behind my back. The fresh scent of his clothes. The softly crackling fire in the hearth. The fact that I had slept in his bed, but he left me there to be late for training... his dissatisfied look as he made me redo the drill again and again, his cold words, the hard clench of his jaw.

And although I was sure that I didn’t want to care about his stupid drills or his stupid essay, I spent every free moment reading the books, jotting down everything that seemed useful, and already forming sentences in my head for the essay.

On the second morning, I completed the drill flawlessly and almost even elegantly. He said “Well done,” and then, without missing a beat, began teaching an even longer and more complicated sequence. This made me feel strangely empty, and I mostly stayed silent as he walked me through the steps of the exercise, correcting every little thing, like how much my leg was bent or whether I was placing my weight on my heel or the balls of my feet. He made me redo the drill a dozen times, just because he thought I hadn’t raised my left arm at the right angle in the seventeenth step.

Eventually, I said something he didn’t like, and as a result, he lectured me for a long time about how the point of the exercises wasn’t learning to fight, but learning control, focus, and discipline. I responded by calling him an asshole. He cut the training short for the day.

I continued writing that damn essay. I titled it ‘A Hundred Inspiring Ways to Die’ , and it already had like ten feet of rows and rows of tiny and neat letters telling about all the various ways to die in the Durnock Marshlands. I detailed the flora first: my favourites were the Swallowroot Vines, which didn’t only suffocate their victims, but did it slowly and joyfully, silently. Ghost Lilies had hallucinogenic pollen. There were ferns in Durnock whose sap burnt the flesh on contact, leaving scars that never healed, and trees whose roots poisoned the soil around them, paralysing every living creature that went too close. 

I wrote a lot about the lovely creatures living in the marsh. I even drew a small illustration of the Bog Stryders, with their eight needle-like legs and glowing eyes. I detailed how the Swamp Wyrms lurked beneath the surface, with the ability to swallow men in whole, dragging them into the depths without a trace. There were deadly frogs and venomous leeches and glass eels in the swamp that could burrow themselves under their victim’s skin, making them stay alive and suffer for months, feeding on them. 

I didn’t really find the topic of the weather all that interesting, so the sections about it ended up being relatively short and vague, but I still wrote about the sinking storms and the disorienting fog and the deadly fires and the marsh collapsing underfoot and pulling people into watery graves without warning.

It was late in the night when I wrote about water rot and fungal infection and marsh fever spread by mosquitoes, and that night I dreamt about parasites that took over my bloodstream, causing madness until all my organs, slowly, one by one, failed. 

On the third day, I wrote about the Will-o’-the-Wisps, the tiny, ethereal lights leading the unwary deeper into the deadly swamps, only to disappear, leaving their victims lost. The Durnock Shades were supposed to spend their time sighing and whispering into the ears of the wanderers, although none of the books provided any explanation as to what the purpose of this might be. I wrote about the Marsh King, a half-man, half-serpent creature, but I added my own comments declaring that I believed this creature to be a product of myths and imagination. 

Then, I couldn’t resist adding a few more personal ideas. I wrote three long paragraphs about the possibility of death by boredom – because, really, who wouldn’t just drop dead from the sheer monotony after trudging through that endless swamp? I found the idea of dying while admiring the landscape quite plausible too: all it takes is tripping over a root, and you’d be face-first in the mouth of a lurking wraith. I was sure Locke would agree on the importance of death by snark as well; you keep making sarcastic remarks to the swamp’s creatures, but apparently, swamp wyrms don’t appreciate a sense of humour and decide to take matters into their own hands... or jaws.

I saved the parts about dying from Locke’s scolding for the very end. It made for a rather sad conclusion. After surviving the swamp, the only thing that could possibly finish you off is sitting through Locke’s endless, tedious lectures on control and discipline. You’ve narrowly avoided being eaten by creatures, drowning in sinkholes, or being poisoned by swamp plants (all right, none of these happened to me)—but this? This is truly the final blow. It’s like a slow, painful death by sheer apathy.

 

Locke made me sit in front of his desk while he read my essay. That meant ten minutes of awkward silence, fidgeting in my seat, as I tried to guess which part he was on while he immersed himself in it—nodding occasionally, furrowing his brow, grumbling disapprovingly, or shaking his head in exasperation.

When he finally finished, he rolled up the parchment and carefully placed it on the desk in front of him. Then he leaned back, rested his chin on his steepled fingers and just stared at me for a long, heavy moment.

“Creative,” he said at last.

I didn’t know if that was a compliment or an insult. 

“There’s a great deal of effort here,” he continued. “You clearly spent significant time analysing the information provided.”

I bit my lip. Should I regret what I wrote?

“And yet,” he added with a great deal of disapproval in his voice, “you managed to turn a detailed assessment of life-threatening dangers into... a comedic act.”

“Well,” I said, crossing my arms, “no one ever said death had to be serious . Who says you can’t crack a joke before you’re dragged into a sinkhole? Just imagine the look on the wyrm’s face if I –”

I stopped when I caught the way he was looking at me, one eyebrow raised like he was daring me to finish that sentence.

Locke tilted his head slightly, his gaze almost clinical. “An admirable coping mechanism, I’m sure. Still, death by snark may not be the most dignified epitaph.”

“Still better than dying by lectures,” I murmured under my breath.

His eyebrow climbed higher. “Would you like to write this again?” he asked in a dry tone. “If you think sitting through a lecture is worse than being eaten alive by a swamp wyrm, you were not paying enough attention.”

I swallowed, the atmosphere suddenly turning much colder in the room. “No,” I said quickly.

Locke shook his head, a brief, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips. “Well, then I suggest you start taking things more seriously. Otherwise, you’ll find that humour isn’t going to save you when you are face to face with something truly dangerous.”

“Right,” I muttered. 

“Still, this truly is excellent work,” he continued, his tone softening just a bit. “I can see that you put a lot of attention into it. The research is thorough, and your writing is precise and detailed.”

“Thanks,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Guess I’ll just write ‘death by praise’ in my next essay.”

“Hm,” he said. “Amusing.” He didn’t look amused in the slightest. There was a slow, dark smile forming on his lips, but it was much more alarming than amused. His eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward slightly. His voice was lower when he spoke. “I’m giving you the same choice as last time. Go to your room.” I swallowed hard, my chest tightening as I realized where this was going. “If you would like,” Locke continued, his tone infuriatingly calm, “you can come back in 15 minutes. If you do, don’t be late.”

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. My throat was dry, and I had to force myself to speak. “Will it be—” Why is my voice so cracked? I cleared my throat quickly. “Will it be… painful?”

“Do you want it to be painful?”

I shifted in my seat, heat crawling up my neck. “Well, you seem kind of annoyed—”

“Do you want it to be painful?” he repeated.

“I don’t know.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “You don’t know, or you just don’t want to admit it?”

I didn’t look him in the eye. "I—I mean, last time—who would even want pain?”

Locke leaned back, smiling, as calm and casual as we were just chatting about the weather for the day. “Oh, more people than you would think. But it’s fine if you don’t. I think, in your case, pain isn’t the goal, it’s more of a tool. And like any tool, it has to be used correctly. If it helps you focus, helps you let go of whatever keeps you tangled up in yourself, then it’s useful."

“Yeah?” I had no idea what he was talking about. 

Locke leaned forward slightly, his voice steady, soft now. “It’s all right not to know. What matters is that you trust me to make that call for you. If you come back, you won’t need to decide—you’ll just need to obey.”

Notes:

Thanks for reading ^^

Please feel free to leave a comment, I LOVE them!

Chapter 26: Slow

Summary:

Will goes back to Locke, and...things happen.

"I felt him shift, leaning down. “Does that hurt?” he asked softly, almost too casual, his breath tickling the skin behind my ear.
Of course it does, you asshole. "

Notes:

This turned out a bit longer than I planned – maybe because Locke has to repeat everything twice? Anyway, please enjoy ^^

I knocked softly. My gaze lingered on the dark colour of the door, on the faint grain of the wood, on the bronze gleam of the nameplate. If he doesn’t hear me knocking, then—

“Enter.”

I swallowed hard and pressed down the heavy brass handle. At first, I was surprised to see the study empty, but as I stepped further in, I noticed the open door leading to the lounge. I took a deep breath and moved closer.

“Come in,” Locke said. My stomach flipped. 

The room was warm, the only light coming from the fireplace. It cast an orange glow across the walls, filling the air with the faint scent of woodsmoke. He was sitting in the armchair by the fire, one leg crossed over the other, his hand resting casually on the armrest. I couldn’t make out his face as all the light came from behind him. 

“Close the door.”

As the door clicked softly shut, the room grew even darker, and I blinked a few times, trying to let my eyes adjust to the dimness. I swallowed hard, my palms clammy.

“You are on time,” he said. 

I nodded. Is that surprising? Or this time, predictable?

He tilted his head slightly, the firelight catching the sharp line of his jaw. “Nervous?”

“No,” I lied.

That slow, dark smile spread across his face, the one that made my stomach twist in knots. “Really?”

“I—” I cleared my throat. “Should I be?”

He leaned back a bit in his chair. “Should you be?” he said, and I made a face, because that was absolutely no answer to my question. His voice was low, smooth, and maddeningly unhurried. “Perhaps. But I find it fascinating that you came here not knowing the answer to that.”

I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t see his eyes clearly. The silence stretched.

Finally, he gestured toward me. “Come closer.”

I stepped forward cautiously. The air felt heavy, and my breath became quick, shallow. 

“Closer,” he said again, and I took small steps, until I could feel the heat from the fire. From him. 

“You are nervous.” Not a question this time.

“I’m not—”

“Don’t lie to me.” His voice was still low, but suddenly so sharp it made me flinch. 

I swallowed hard. “Maybe– maybe a little.”

Locke’s smile returned. “Good,” he murmured. His voice dropped further. “Take off your shirt.”

I blinked, for some reason caught off guard. What else did I expect?...What else did I want ? My hands hesitated at the hem of my shirt.

“Now, William”

There was a sharp edge in his voice now. I slid down my coat, tossing it aside, and started to unbutton my shirt, my movements clumsy with nerves. What’s even happening?

“Fold them,” he instructed as soon as I shrugged off my shirt.

“What?”

“Fold them,” he repeated. “Neatly. Then place them on that chair.”

I hesitated for a moment, then bent down for my coat and tried to fold both it and the shirt somewhat tidily before placing them on the chair.

“Your boots,” he said, gesturing to my feet. “Place them below the chair.”

“My boots?”

“Your boots. And socks.”

It felt strange, bending down and unlacing my boots. I was shirtless, still the fireplace seemed almost too warm.

“Pants, too,” he said when I turned back to him. 

My cheeks burned. “You didn’t—”

“Now.” 

My hands trembled slightly as I unfastened my trousers. My fingers fumbled as I folded them, the silence in the room amplifying every rustle of fabric, every unsteady breath.

“Your undergarments.”

“But–”

“Do you plan to question every instruction I give you tonight?”

Shit. 

I bit the inside of my mouth as I shook my head, feeling my cheeks flush. I obeyed, looking away. I refused to fold my underwear, just tossed it onto the top of the pile made from my clothes.  The only thing I had left on was the talisman dangling on the strip at my neck. The carpet was soft beneath my bare feet, my toes digging into the plush material. The fire crackled softly. I glanced at him, and his eyes were burning, never leaving me. 

“Stand here,” Locke said, gesturing to a spot in front of him.

I stepped there, staring over his shoulder. My face was burning. I tried to not think about what was happening. What I was doing. Naked.

“Straighten up.”

My breaths were uncomfortably uneven. “You are enjoying this.”

“Profoundly. Now, straighten up .”

I tried to square my shoulders, raising my chin a tiny bit, keeping my gaze on the fire behind him. 

“Good,” he murmured. “Put your hands behind your back.”

I clasped them together, fingers gripping tightly. 

“Feet apart.”

“What?”

He stood up so suddenly I took a small, surprised step back. We were really close. He didn’t do anything, just stared at me. I gulped. “Feet apart,” he repeated. “That’s it. More.” 

I adjusted my stance.

“Good,” he said, his voice a low hum of approval. He circled me slowly, his footsteps soft on the rug. “You can’t seem to stay still, though. Did I tell you to move your head?”

I froze, my pulse racing.

“I thought not,” he murmured, his tone almost amused. He stopped in front of me again, his gaze sharp, considering. “You’re even more fidgety tonight than usual. Why is that?”

Because I’m just standing here in front of you, fucking naked?

I stayed silent.

He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. “Nervous?” he asked again, his fingers trailing up to my shoulder. His touch was feather-light, but it left a trail of heat in its wake.

“You ask that a lot,” I murmured. “I guess you would be glad to make me nervous, wouldn’t you?”

“Just a bit,” he said with a low chuckle. “I don’t want you to be too nervous.”

“Then why–”

“Shh.” His fingers touched my arm, then slid up to my shoulder. His touch was soft and gentle, barely grazing my skin. Every nerve in my body prickled.

Locke moved slowly, deliberately, as if he had all the time in the world. I held my breath, my back stiff, my hands clamped tightly behind me, trying not to fidget. He stopped behind me, out of sight. His fingers trailed up to my neck, then – I shuddered – quickly down along my spine. 

He rested a warm palm on my lower back. 

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, his voice broke the silence. “You know,” he said, the words sliding out casually, “you stand like someone who has been taught to stand.”

I stiffened. “What?”

His other hand touched my shoulder, fingers pushing into the muscles. “There’s an awareness in how you carry yourself. Upright. Smooth. Controlled.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” I muttered, slouching a bit just to prove him wrong, keeping my eyes on the fire ahead. 

His fingers curved around my shoulder, and his thumb dug into my flesh, hard and sharp. I gave a low hiss. “Up,” he commanded. I straightened my back quickly. “Excellent. This is what I was talking about. You can carry yourself like–”

“Like all that suffering in the mornings was worth it?” I scoffed.

“No,” he said, his voice low and cutting. “No. There are moments during training when I wonder if you are purposely this clumsy. Because, at other times, when you don’t even seem to care about your stance, it’s like—”

“Clumsy?” I repeated, outraged. “ Clumsy ?”

“Yes. You are slow. You stumble.”

“Maybe because some moron decided we should train at the crack of dawn!” I snapped, spinning around to face him. “When normal people are still in their bed! And we are waving swords around, barely awake!”

He looked back at me completely calmly and coolly. I couldn’t read anything from his face.

“Did I permit you to move?” he asked slowly.

“I’m not clumsy!” I hissed.

“Did I permit you to move?” he repeated, his tone deeper now, carrying a quiet threat.

I ignored him. “I’m so tired of never being good enough for you. Every day, I wake up at some insane hour, while it’s still pitch black outside, and drag myself out to the cold, frozen training grounds, just because you think it will somehow make me more disciplined, only for you to spend the next hour telling me that everything I do is clumsy, slow, and–”

“Did I permit you to move?”

“No,” I snapped, “but—”

“Then please turn back around,” he said.

I huffed, crossing my arms. “And if I don’t?”

Locke didn’t answer right away. Instead, he raised one eyebrow, an expression that was equal parts questioning and amused.

I wanted to argue. To yell. To kick his shin. 

His gaze was heavy, and I avoided it, looking down at the carpet. I imagined setting it on fire. 

I opened my mouth to say something—anything—but the words got stuck in my throat.

Locke’s voice broke the silence, cool and deliberate. “Is this about me calling you clumsy?” he asked, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Or is it about me saying your posture is that of someone from a noble family?”

I flinched, my eyes darting up to meet his serious expression before quickly dropping again.

“I lived in a monastery,” I said.

“A life spent in silence and prayer doesn’t teach a boy to stand this way.” His voice was almost too calm, too certain. “No. This is learned. Instilled.”

I flinched, refusing to meet his eyes. “I didn’t come here to talk.”

“No, you didn’t,” he agreed smoothly, the edge of a smile playing at his lips. “Yet still, we are talking.”

I shifted uncomfortably, glancing at the door. “I’m leaving.”

“Are you?” His voice was quiet, but there was something in it that made my chest tighten. “I don’t think so.”

“But–”

“You don’t leave until I decide so.”

“But–”

His fingers brushed under my chin, tilting it upward until I was forced to meet his gaze.

“William,” he said softly, but his tone was no less commanding, “do you remember what I told you last time? What you should say when you want to stop?”

“That I— that I’ve reached my limit.”

“Exactly.” He nodded, his voice quiet and smooth. “You say those words, and we will stop. Then we will talk about what happened. That’s the only way you can leave before I’m finished with you.”

“That still involves talking ,” I grumbled.

“Yes. I like to talk.”

“Yeah,” I muttered, rolling my eyes. “I guess you like to hear your own voice.”

His eyes narrowed, his finger tightening on my chin. I raised my head a bit. 

“You are not wrong,” he said eventually with a slight shrug. “I do like to hear my voice. But more than that, William,”—he paused, his thumb stroking over my skin, almost too gently for the intensity in his eyes—“I like hearing your voice, especially when you are forced to use it properly.”

I looked away, biting my lip. His thumb stroked up, freeing the skin from between my lips with a gentle pull. 

Oh.

“But tell me, do you think I like it when you roll your eyes?” he asked in a low voice.

I wanted to bite my lip again. I wanted to take a deep breath to steady my racing heart. He was so close to me. His fingers were still on my chin, one just below my lips. I was so fucking naked. The fire crackled loudly behind me, hot and bright. I wanted to step closer to him. (Or to run away.)

“Well?” he prompted.

I winced. “Sorry…what?”

“Do you think I like it when you roll your eyes?” 

I blinked. “I have no idea,” I said, shaking my head. “You’ve never indicated there was anything wrong—”

His fingers tightened on my chin before sliding back, circling my neck, and scraping into my hair. He yanked a few strands sharply, pulling my head back further. I hissed, but I kept my gaze down, not willing to meet his eyes.

He stepped closer. He was so much taller, his chest just inches from me, his breath cool against my skin.

His voice was quiet, dangerously calm. “Think carefully about how you want this evening to unfold.”

Tension gathered in my stomach, sharp and hot. I opened my mouth to speak, but he cut me off.

“If you roll your eyes at me again tonight,” he said, his tone impossibly quiet, “I will put you over my knee and spank you so hard you won’t be able to sit down tomorrow.”

I blinked, swallowing hard. I met his gaze, my voice almost defiant. “Tonight? Does this mean I’m allowed to roll my eyes at other times?”

Locke’s expression didn’t change, but the gleam in his eyes darkened. His fingers tightened in my hair. “No, William, it means I’m allowing you one more chance before you learn what happens when you decide to defy me.”

For a moment, everything was still. Even the small sounds of the fire, even the dancing shadows on the walls seemed frozen. The air was thick with tension. His fingers were still tangled in my hair, pulling my head back, and I was caught in his gaze, unable to look away from his dark eyes, now almost black in the dim lights. 

His voice, low and controlled, pierced through the haze of my thoughts. His thumb gently brushed along my nape. “I asked you to turn around earlier. Do you want to obey me, or do you want to keep testing my patience?”

I opened my mouth, looking away. Say something. Something witty. Don’t let him–

The silence stretched between us.

Why did it matter so much to resist?

The very idea of surrender sent a rush of warmth flooding through my veins, and I could feel my body trembling, but I fought it, desperately trying to maintain some measure of resistance.

“Look at me,” he said quietly. I blinked, shifting my gaze back to him. His eyes glittered with something unreadable and dark, watching me carefully.

He tugged gently on my hair. Fire was flaming in his eyes. “Do you want to obey me?”

I nodded, dazed. I had a few distant thoughts about defiance, about standing up against him, about testing some more limits, but they were far away, fading. “Yes,” I whispered.

Locke’s eyes glinted darkly as he held me there, waiting. I could feel the weight of it, the slow, controlled patience in his gaze. 

“Yes…sir.”

It wasn’t even intentional. It felt as though I were under some kind of spell, with the world narrowing down to the glow of the fire flickering behind me, Locke’s dark eyes, the touch of his fingers at the nape of my neck, the closeness of his body, the warmth radiating from him, the sense of safety.

His grip on my hair softened, his fingers running lightly through the strands. That dark gleam in his eyes shifted to something even darker. “Turn around,” he whispered, his voice smooth and rich and pleased.

I obeyed silently, turning clumsily on my heels. My body felt uncoordinated, but his hands were there—steady, guiding me. He caught my shoulders, his palms firm and grounding, helping me into position.

“Hands behind your back,” he instructed. I didn’t even remember when my arms had left the position. I clasped them together behind my lower back—

And immediately, he was stepping closer, an arm wrapped firmly around my chest, pulling me back, pressing us together, and I could feel the fabric of his clothes against my bare skin, his breath against my hair, his tight muscles shifting…he was hard. 

“Well done,” he murmured, lips close to my ear, making me shiver. “Well done.”

I gulped, then cleared my throat awkwardly. “Don’t expect it all the time.”

He stepped back a bit, swiftly, and his palm landed on my bottom with a loud slap. I hissed – it was mostly surprising, though also stung a little.

“You were saying?” he asked, his tone maddeningly composed, as though nothing had happened.

I bit my tongue, flushing. I could feel my heart flutter in my chest, fast and shivering. I stayed silent.

Locke’s hand moved slowly, stroking down my back, from my shoulders to the curve of my ass. His touch was deliberate, hotter than the glow of the fire. His fingers lingered there, circling slowly, teasingly. I tried not to fidget, but staying still felt impossible.

“Close your eyes,” he said. 

I obeyed, and he stepped away. The warmth of his body left me, and the room felt suddenly colder.

“Keep your eyes closed,” he said softly. “Don’t move.”

I took a shuddering breath, listening to his receding footsteps. A moment of silence, and then he returned. His fingers brushed my face, my hair, and something soft—a cloth—dropped over my eyes. 

I lifted an arm to touch it, instinctively, and he slapped my hand away. “Behind your back,” he ordered, and moved around me to tie the cloth around my head. He was slow and careful, moving a few locks of hair away. When I opened my eyes, I only saw darkness, the fabric thick and impenetrable.

“Come,” he murmured, but managed to make the low murmur still sound like a command. “I’ll guide you.”

His fingers caressed my shoulder, then slid down to my wrist, pulling gently. My steps were small and fumbling, my senses alive: every small sound—the shifting of his clothes, our steps, my breathing—breaking the silence.

The soft click of the door signaled we had left the lounge, and the distant crackling of the fire grew quieter. The air in Locke’s bedroom was colder and smelled like fresh linen. A few more steps, and my legs gently knocked into something solid. 

“Lie down.”

His hands guided me, pressing gently on my shoulders until I felt the cool sheets beneath me. He maneuvered me onto my back, settling me with careful precision. A soft pillow cushioned my head, and I instinctively bent my knees, trying to shield some of my nakedness.

His hand pressed lightly against my knee, straightening my leg with a single, decisive motion.

Locke moved with careful deliberation, never rushing. His fingers ghosted over my skin, brushing lightly at my shoulders, my arms.

Then something touching my face—something light, barely there, like a feather brushing against my skin. At first, I wasn’t sure if I was imagining it. But then it moved again, a soft trace down my jaw, over the curve of my neck. Just enough to make my skin prickle.  I couldn’t focus on anything but the sensation of it, a slow, teasing drift of fingers, leaving a faint, cool trail that I could almost feel lingering long after it passed.

Locke’s hands were steady, unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world. His fingertips stroked down the length of my arms, sometimes so lightly that it tickled, sometimes pressing just enough to draw a shiver from me. 

I flinched and hissed when his nails suddenly scraped across my stomach; the sensation was sharp and quick, and mostly...

“Ticklish?” Locke asked.

“No,” I lied, still gasping for air.

Locke’s fingers moved with deliberate slowness, tracing the outline of my ribs before suddenly pushing one hand down on my chest, and using the other to tickle my flank. For a moment, I sucked in a deep breath and I tried to stay still and silent—then I cried out, my legs kicking, trying to squirm away.

“Liar,” he sighed. “Didn’t I tell you not to lie to me?”

I didn’t have time (or the ability) to answer before his fingers attacked my stomach again, raking across the soft skin. I couldn’t suppress the laughter—couldn’t help the way my body jerked in involuntary response. Every nerve seemed to be on fire, and when his hand left and stroked over my thighs, the skin there seemed equally sensitive now.

“Stop” I gasped, my voice breathless. 

Locke scoffed, cold but amused. “I think you need to learn a lesson in honesty.”

He barely had to touch me. His fingers, light as air, traced over my skin, from my hip bone to my navel, and I was already gasping for breath, my head thrown back. I managed to twist out of his grip and rolled onto my side, but with a smooth motion, he turned me back onto my back. 

He hissed, low and disapproving. “Tell me again,” he said, his voice darker now, almost a growl, “what was it you said about not being ticklish?”

Everything was too fucking sensitive. Even the pillow under my head, the locks of hair touching the edge of my face, the sheets beneath my feet sent fire up through my nerves. I gasped for breath, trying to hold myself together, but every inch of my skin felt too sensitive, too exposed. “I—” I couldn’t finish the sentence before another wave of laughter forced its way out of me. 

“I think we are getting somewhere,” Locke purred, his voice dark, amused. “Still not ticklish?” 

“I’m just–” I tried to sound coherent, but definitely failed. “I’m not, just– laughing at your smug face.”

His fingers brushed up on my stomach—up—over my chest—then pinched a nipple, hard.

In one single, frantic movement I was jerking upright, yanking off the blindfold while pulling a blanket in front of my chest.

“What the hell?” I exclaimed. My heart was racing. I reached a careful hand under the blanket, touching my nipple – it was intact, but the pain still lingered. “Why would you ever do that?”

Locke was watching me with that damn, infuriating calm, with dark eyes, with a small, amused smile. “Didn’t like that, did you?” 

“Of course not! What the–”

“You looked like you needed a little reminder of your place, William.”

“But–”

“Lie back down.”

“But–”

“ Lie back down .”

Our gazes met for a moment, and something hot and sharp twisted in my stomach. My fingers released the edge of the blanket as I slid back down, though I kept it draped over my chest. Locke tossed it aside with a single swift movement, leaned forward, and placed his index and middle fingers on either side of my right nipple, just firm enough that I couldn’t focus on anything else. My chest was rising and falling rapidly, and my hand hovered near his fingers, as though I were about to stop him (not that I would stand a chance).

“Put your hands above your head.”

“But–”

His eyes narrowed ominously. “Put your hands above your head.”

He waited until I bit my lip and obeyed. As he leaned closer to me, sitting at the edge of the bed, his hip pressed against my waist.

“I’m going to ask you again, William. Are you ticklish?”

Yes .

I swallowed hard, trying to take a deep breath. His eyes stayed fixed on me, not even blinking. “Obviously,” I muttered finally. 

I gasped, my back arching off the bed as he pinched my nipple again, twisting slightly this time. All my muscles tensed, and I slapped at his hand, awkwardly and weakly.

When he finally relented, I collapsed back against the bed, chest heaving, gasping for air.

“But…” I managed to gasp, “but I answered honestly!”

“You did.” He tilted his head, studying me with that infuriatingly calm, smug expression that didn’t seem to leave his face. “After I asked you—how many times? Probably ten?”

I frowned. “I bet it wasn’t more than three.”

He hummed. Then his hand darted out, pinching the other nipple this time. I yelped, trying to twist away, then trying to stay still, as moving hurt even more.

“See?” he said smoothly, raising his hand. His smirk widened as I glared at him, breathless and indignant. “I’m starting to think you enjoy this.”

“What?!” My voice cracked as I pushed myself up onto my elbows, trying to catch my breath. “I absolutely do not!”

“Down,” he ordered, pressing my shoulders back to the bed. “Hands above your head, William. Keep them there.”

A took a deep breath, maybe to argue, maybe just to brace myself. In the end, the sharpness in his gaze kept me silent, and I obeyed, lifting my hands above my head, clenching a soft pillow. 

He had many soft pillows. 

He leaned back, his hands gliding over my skin slowly. Still so sensitive, I twitched involuntarily under his touch, as if my body couldn’t decide whether to squirm away or lean into him.

His hands slid over my chest—now moving slowly across my nipples, leaving behind a tingling, warm sensation entirely different from the earlier pinches. His touch drifted upward, gliding across my neck, my face, skimming my ear, and then my shoulder in slow, deliberate strokes, and I took deep breaths, shuddering.

The blindfold I’d discarded earlier was probably still tangled somewhere in the blankets, so I could see Locke watching me – with a maddeningly calm and unhurried expression, so serious like I (writhing under his simple touch) was some riddle to solve; only with a small, absolutely-self satisfied smirk in the corner of his mouth. 

Heat pooled deep in my stomach, and I jerked my hips up as he brushed over my nipple again. 

“When,” I finally burst out through gritted teeth, “are you going to actually touch me?”

His eyes glinted, his fingers brushing across my nipple once again, slow and deliberate. I squeezed my eyes shut.

“What do you think I’m doing,” he said quietly, “if not touching you?”

“Come on…” I gasped as his hands slid down to my flank. “Please?”

His fingers dug deep into my waist, dancing over the curve of my hip before skimming over my inner thigh. He coaxed my thighs to spread a slow smile. His fingers circled my inner thigh, moving slowly, teasingly.

By the time I became aware of the sounds I was making, I no longer cared. My throat was dry, I was thirsty, and if I hadn’t wanted more than anything for Locke to finally wrap his long, strong fingers around me, I would have probably been mortified by the whimpering. Instead, I just scrunched up my face, dug my nails into the pillow, and trembled.

One of his hands left my thigh and flicked my nipple. My hand flew down to protect me, and he practically growled at me. “You move again,” his voice was surprisingly soft, “and I will stop touching you altogether.”

“But–”

Another small twist. “Hush.”

I bit my lip, stilling, as his hand stayed on my chest, fingers tracing over my nipple with maddening gentleness.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of my ragged breathing, the occasional yelp escaping me, and the delicate brush of his fingers against my soft, sensitive skin.

“Now,” Locke said after a long pause, his voice low and filled with a quiet command, “you’re going to stay still for me, aren’t you ?”

I nodded, barely able to focus.

He leaned down, his breath warm against my ear. “Good. Because if you don’t, I might just change my mind about what happens next.”

I nodded vigorously. 

Then—finally—his fingers moved again. This time, they brushed across my hip bone, moving lower, more purposefully. His fingers were hot, his touch light, as he ran them over my cock. I arched against his touch with a high moan.

He made a soft sound, somewhere between approval and amusement, before he wrapped his palm around me. My head tilted back, and I took a long, deep, trembling breath – then his other hand pinched my nipple again, and I gasped, my leg instinctively kicking out.

“Are you going to keep doing this the whole time?” I asked, and though I tried to sound gruff, my voice ended up coming out more pleading than anything. My cock was throbbing in his touch. 

His expression didn’t change at all, but his hands stopped moving. I tensed, and he just watched me, calm and collected. I squirmed. 

Silence stretched between us.

I squirmed a bit more.

Nothing.

Frustrated, my hip jerked up into his hand, and this finally made him move: taking his hand away, and pushing my hips down firmly. 

“You seem to be under the impression that you can just move or talk or argue any time you want,” he said slowly.

“No,” I blurted, shaking my head quickly. “No. Sorry.” I squeezed the pillow above my head. 

He gave a low chuckle. “Should I tie you up?”

A strange pull deep in my stomach. Still, I kept shaking my head. “No.”

“Hm. Maybe next time. Alright; stay still.”

I nodded, dazed, and his right hand curled around the base of my cock, tightly, and started to inch its way up to the head, agonisingly slow. I wanted to tell him to do it faster, I wanted to beg for it, but just tilted my head back and kept my mouth shut, whimpering. 

His other hand grabbed my nipple. I made a small, sullen, pleading sound. He twisted. I yelled, trembling, and his other hand on my cock started to move faster. 

It only lasted a few minutes. One of his hands kept causing a constant pain through my nipples, sending jolts of arousal into my belly, while the other moved so precisely and deliberately, bringing me closer and closer to the finish, that it wasn’t long before I was gasping for air with trembling legs, tension building and building and building…

And when I let out a low groan and my toes curled into the sheets and my hips jerked uncontrollably—he raised his hands and leaned back. 

For a moment, I couldn’t even understand what’s happening. 

Everything was so sweet and hot and blissful and vivid–

My hands flew to myself, but before I could do anything, he grabbed my wrists and pinned them down next to my hips.

“But–” I gasped, tossing under his grip, “What the fuck ? Why would you stop? Why–”

“Calm down.”

I ceased the violent tossing and glared at him. “Fuck you.”

He moved really quickly. A strong hand flipped me onto my stomach, and he was on the bed, kneeling, a bent knee slipping beneath my hips (his trousers grazing against my tender cock almost painfully). He gathered my flailing hands into one hand and pressed them to my lower back. This was starting to get familiar–

His other hand slapped down on my bottom, again and again, hard and fast.

I buried my face in the pillows. The position was uncomfortable (and embarrassing), my body was still so sensitive and he kept spanking me, alternating between the sides, and soon the sharp stinging on the surface became a deeper, much more painful sensation. 

My legs kicked the bed.

I tried to move my hands down, to cover myself, but his grip held me firmly in place.

“All right,” I groaned. “I’m sorry. Could you just please–”

“Hush.”

“But…”

I felt some magic swift in the air, and tried to turn back to see what he was doing. I glimpsed something wooden in his hand, flat and broad—I felt the sharp sting before I even fully registered the object he was holding. The wood was cold, and it made such a harsher sound when colliding with my skin than his palm before. I bit my lip to stifle a gasp as he struck me again, harder than before, the force making my body jerk against the bed.

The pain was different—deeper, sharper, more lasting. I clenched my fists, crying out at every hit, my chest painfully tight. 

“Shh.” He leaned a bit forward, his calm, measured voice against my ear. “You will learn to stay still when I tell you, won’t you?”

“Yes,” I gasped, as he pressed the smooth wooden surface against my flaming skin. “Yes. Of course. Please…”

The wood left my bottom, and slapped down back, hard. 

I let out a loud groan. 

I felt him shift, leaning down. “Does that hurt?” he asked softly, almost too casual, his breath tickling the skin behind my ear.

Of course it does, you asshole.

I kept my face deep in the pillows as I nodded, biting down on the fabric to keep from crying out.

“A few more,” he said, squeezing my wrists tightly. I shook my head, moaning and trying to crawl away, but he kept me firmly in place, his grip unyielding.

“No… no,” I gasped, unable to stop the desperation from creeping into my voice. “I can’t—”

“Stay still,” he reminded me, and before I could find my voice to beg him to stop, the paddle came down again—faster, sharper and even more painful. My breath hitched in my throat, and I bit the pillow harder, trying to stifle the awkward sounds I made. The pain didn’t fade, just lingered, deep and thick and solid, and it made my eyes prickle with tears and I felt so frustrated and vulnerable and embarrassed and—

He left me lying there, just for a moment, gasping for air and trembling, ass propped up into the air on his knee, before he flipped me back onto my back, shifting so he was again sitting next to me, on the edge of the bed. I cried out, raising a hand to wipe at my tears, trying to find a more comfortable position for my tender bottom.

He swatted my hand away, leaned over me, and kissed my tear-streaked face softly. I went still. His lips were soft and careful, his hand sweeping a few locks of hair away. 

“Beautiful,” he murmured, placing a strong hand on my jaw, turning my head slightly. He kissed my lips, just a brief touch, soft and gentle. 

I blinked up at him, breath still shaky, my chest rising and falling with every shallow breath. He stroked over my lower lip with his thumb, then glanced down…

“Well, well,” he mused. “It looks like you are not as opposed to a spanking as you pretended to be,” he remarked, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “You are still hard.”

“No, I’m not,” I said. Why did I say that? I was, obviously. He gave me a reproachful look. “Sorry…” I muttered.

He shrugged. “Well, if you are not, then–”

“No, no, please, please, please. Sorry. I don’t know why I said that. Sorry. Please.” I was rambling. “Sometimes I just say things before actually thinking about them–”

“Oh, do you? I never would have guessed.”

“Just… sorry? Please…”

“Hands above your head.” His eyes turned dark, his hand moving down to dig into my inner thigh. “You keep them there, do you understand?”

“Yes,” I nodded quickly, grabbing a pillow like my life depended on it. He looked at me for a long moment, thoughtful, then nodded, and his palm moved to wrap around my cock. I sighed deeply.

 

 

Afterwards, I rested on the bed, half-sitting against the pillows, wrapped up in a blanket, sipping the second glass of water Locke forced into my hand.

He sat next to me, making sure I drank, stroking my arm that didn’t hold the glass. 

“You did wonderfully,” he said, for what felt like the hundredth time.

I shrugged, like all the ninety-nine times before. 

“How do you feel?” he asked softly.

“Sore,” I huffed. “But don’t you want to…?” I shot a meaningful look at his groin. 

He shook his head. “No.”

“But why?” I asked…maybe whining a little.

“It’s really late.”

“I don’t care. Don’t you want it?”

“Drink your water, Will.”

I took a big, exaggerated gulp, rolling my eyes. “You can’t ? Is that what this is about?”

“William…”

“Is this about your age?”

“ William .”

“I know you are old. I looked you up in the records in the library.” I shrugged. “But…you were hard before. So you just don’t want it with me?”

“I don’t need it now.”

“But–”

“It’s not always about having an orgasm.”

“Well, you made it kind of about that for me,” I scoffed.

Locke’s hand, which had been idly stroking my arm, stilled. He turned to look at me with that familiar, unshakably calm expression. “It’s not about age, or capability, or anything else you are spinning in that restless mind of yours. You are sore. You are exhausted. Right now, you need to rest, not to be worrying about me.”

I’m not worrying, I just want to suck you off.

Locke’s hand resumed stroking my arm, his touch soothing. I stayed quiet for a moment, shifting slightly under the blanket.

“You know,” I began, “you really do enjoy this whole ‘I’m in charge’ thing, don’t you?”

He chuckled lowly. “Do you think so?”

“Well, yes? Obviously?”

He nodded, patting my shoulder. “Well, yes, I do, obviously. But also, it is about you.”

“Me?”

“Yes,” he said simply, his thumb brushing over the soft skin inside my elbow. “You crave this. The rules. The control. The structure. It’s not just about what you feel physically; it’s about knowing someone else is steering, so you don’t have to.”

I swallowed hard. “I…” My throat felt tight. “That’s not…”

“Not true?” he finished for me, his tone softening slightly. “You can lie to yourself if you would like, but don’t lie to me.”

I flushed and glared at him, but his expression remained unchanged, calm and steady.

“I don’t ‘crave the control’ ” I mumbled, mostly just to be defiant. 

He smirked faintly, finally, and leaned back on the bed beside me. “Of course you don’t.”

I rolled my eyes, pulling the blanket a bit higher on my chest.

We were silent for a while. The bed was soft, and Locke's touch on my arm was slow, rhythmic, soothing.

“We did a lot of things tonight,” he said eventually, “things that probably felt unfamiliar to you. I’m not going to force you to talk about it, but it’s important for you to know that if you ever have questions or want to say something, I’m here. Whether it’s now, or later.”

I fiddled with the corner of the blanket, remembering the way his fingers had tightened around my nipple…

“Because you’re so much more experienced, I get it,” I mumbled. “Well, yeah, your age…”

“I’m not old.”

“Well, I didn’t say you’re ancient , just—”

“You are acting childish.”

“I just—”

“By the way, when exactly did you read about that in the library?”

My hand froze at the corner of the blanket. My face felt like it couldn’t decide whether to turn bright red or pale white.

Oh shit.

“Um…”

“ William .” He sounded tired, but also dark and angry and severe.

“Let’s talk about what you did to my nipples,” I blurted.

“ Will .”

“It was painful. Has it ever been done to you? Because it fucking hurts, you know.”

“ William ,” he repeated, fixing me with his gaze. 

I bit my lip. “What about… sleeping?”

He stared at me a bit longer.

“Please?” I added, batting my eyes.

He sighed. “All right. Stay here, I will fetch you some clothes.”

 

Notes:

I’d like to thank you - again - for your comments. You’re all so amazingly kind!

Chapter 27: Dream

Summary:

"Third, I was slammed onto my back as the phantom hound lunged onto my chest, sinking its teeth deep into my shoulder."

Notes:

Did I plan anything like this?
Obviously not. Things just seem to happen here... I've been trying to piece together the events leading to the ending, but bloody hell, no one ever said it would be this haaaaaaaaaaard

A soft touch on my shoulder woke me.

Sleepily, I pulled the blanket up to my chin, burying my face into the pillow. The bed was pleasantly warm, and the pillow soft under my head.

“Time to wake up,” Locke said.

I groaned and turned over, opening my eyes a bit and squinting against the glow of the light spheres.

Locke stood by the bed with his arms crossed, fully dressed, meticulous as always, looking down at me motionlessly.

“Would it be such a tragedy,” I muttered, “if, just for one day, we skipped training? Or started an hour later?”

“Good morning,” Locke said, ignoring my question.

“It’s not—”

He didn’t wait for me to finish. He bent down, yanked the blanket off me, and with a quick, effortless move, rolled me onto my stomach.

“What the hell?” I yelped, squirming as he grabbed my hips and lifted them slightly to pull down my pants. It wasn’t hard for him since I was sleeping in his clothes, and they were all far too big for me. I shivered at the cool air touching my skin. “Are you seriously—what the fuck are you doing?”

“Checking,” he replied, sitting down on the edge of the bed. I froze as his fingers trailed over the bare skin of my bottom. “There’s some bruising here,” he said calmly, and in the next moment his fingers dug deep into the tender flesh. I hissed angrily. “You bruise easily. Does it hurt?” 

“Yes,” I grumbled. “It hurts so much that, unfortunately, I don’t think I’ll be able to participate in today’s training…”

“Mhm.” He patted my bottom, far too matter-of-factly, then stood up. “You have fifteen minutes. Drink a glass of water and get dressed. I’ll be waiting for you on the training grounds.”

“But–”
“Fifteen minutes, William. Hurry up.”

I groaned, turning onto my back and rolling my eyes at the ceiling. The door closed behind him, and I was alone–

I was alone in Locke’s bedroom. 

I sat up slowly, my eyes drifting to the cabinets and bookshelves lining the walls. In front of the fireplace, there were soft armchairs arranged neatly, and on a small round table lay a book, as if it had been left there mid-reading. Other than that, the room was as spotless and orderly as Locke always was: the books stood in straight rows on the shelves, the edges of the carpets aligned perfectly with the floorboards, the heavy and dark curtains were drawn back at an identical angle on either side of the tall windows. 

Only the bed was a mess. 

Swinging my legs toward the floor, I stood carefully and tossed the blanket back onto the mattress. My own clothes were in the next room, and Locke’s trousers—already halfway off—slid down completely. I kicked them off and stood there in just his shirt, looking around the room.

Locke is waiting. Fifteen minutes.

I walked over to the bookshelf. It stretched all the way to the ceiling, and I couldn’t even reach the top rows. Tilting my head to read the titles, they were all in a language I didn’t recognise. I stepped aside. The neighbouring shelf was filled with books about artefact legislation. Then there were books on military strategy. Thick and seemingly dull, ancient tomes on philosophy and law. There was a book titled the Art of Control (Huh.) Then there were even older writings about the origins of magic, time manipulation, and possession, and necromancy ... the spine of one of the books tingled beneath my fingers, and I stepped back, as though I was suddenly balancing on the edge of a mass grave full of the dead rising—

What the hell.

I was about to turn away when I noticed the identical, well-worn, unmarked spines on one of the higher shelves. They weren’t titled, didn’t even look like books. Notes? Records? Journals?

I bit my lip. Locke would kill me .

My skin tingled as I thought about his touch. Nothing hurt anymore, but my body still felt sensitive and vulnerable. I thought about his lips, the quick kiss after he wiped away my tears. His hands, holding me tightly…

He’d probably never look at me again if I read his journals.

And anyway, what kind of idiot wouldn’t protect their secret journals with some kind of magic from prying hands? The last thing I needed was some bookshelf-guarding magic monster biting my fingers off. It wouldn’t be easy to explain at the start of training why I was missing half my hand...

Training. Fifteen minutes.

 

* 

 

“It was a refreshing change last night to have you actually arrive on time for once,” Locke remarked as I approached. He was waiting at the edge of the training field, inside an alcove, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. Around him, everything gleamed white: a thick blanket of snow had fallen over the Sanctum during the night, and it was still coming down in heavy, soft flakes.

“Sorry,” I muttered, eyeing the training sword in his hand with reluctance. Lately, we’d been sparring with swords nearly every morning.

“What took you so long?” he asked, raising one eyebrow.

“There are interesting books on your shelves,” I replied honestly, shrugging.

“I thought you couldn’t find a clean shirt in the mess that seems to have taken over your room,” he said dryly.

“There isn’t any mess—”

He raised a hand to silence me. With a quick flick of his wrist, he tossed one of the wooden practice swords in my direction. Not very gracefully, but I managed to catch it.

“My books are protected by magic,” he informed me.

“I guessed,” I nodded, twirling the sword in an attempt at nonchalance.

“Did you come to any harm?” he tilted his head, studying me carefully.

“I didn’t try to take anything,” I shrugged again, shaking my head.

He scrutinized me for a moment longer, his gaze sharp, before giving a satisfied nod. “How much do you remember of the drill we practised yesterday?”

“I remember it had about two hundred more steps than would’ve been reasonable, and a third of them seemed designed to make sure you could fall on your ass in as many creative ways as possible—”

“For every time you manage to complete the drill without mistakes,” Locke interrupted, “you may borrow one of my books.”

I stared at him. “Seriously?

“Seriously.”

“But… you have books about all kinds of things. Like, necromancy .”

“Yes, I do.”

“And would you let… could I read them?”

“You may read them,” he emphasized, his eyes narrowing. “If you attempt any of the spells in a book like that, I’ll toss you into a cell myself and leave you there for a month.”

A bit stunned by the sudden dark shift in his tone, I nodded quickly.

“Do you understand?” he pressed.

“Yes,” I murmured.

“Good. Let’s see what you have learnt.”

Swallowing, I gripped the sword tighter and moved into the middle of the training area. Fresh snow crunched beneath my boots, drifting onto my eyelashes and sneaking under the collar of my coat, sending chills up my neck.

I sighed, straightening up under Locke’s watchful gaze, then turned to face him. White flakes settled in his dark hair, but his clothes remained untouched—likely protected by some spell against the weather. Of course they were.

I rolled my eyes and resigned myself to the inevitable misery of yet another awful morning, positioning myself for the first step of the drill.

 

*

 

“It wasn’t bad,” Locke said as we put the swords away.

“It was as bad as it could possibly be,” I muttered, tossing my sword onto the shelf. Locke frowned and adjusted the sword so it lined up neatly with the others.

“It wasn’t bad,” he repeated. “You are improving. You are often slow and inattentive, but you are getting better.”

“How terrible must I have been before if this is what you call ‘not bad’?” I grumbled.

“Go eat breakfast,” he said.

 

*

 

I fell asleep.

After breakfast, I stumbled back to my room to grab my books and to change out of my damp training clothes. I only sat down on the edge of the bed to pull on a dry sock. I lay back for just a moment…just a moment…and the only reason I pulled the blanket over myself was because the room was cold, and I was only half-dressed...

 

Lysander Langston, that ancient-looking man from the painting, stood before me, his purple cloak billowing slightly behind his back, even though we were in a dark chamber, probably underground, and the air was completely still. 

“Are you dead?” I asked, tilting my head, glancing up at Lysander. His face was wrinkled, his eyes so pale they looked almost white. Along his long, slightly crooked nose, he looked down at me sternly.

“Yes,” he replied simply.

I looked around. Lanterns lined the walls, with faintly glowing light spheres, their flames flickering as though real fire burned inside them. “Where are we?”

“Walk with me,” Lysander said.

Pebbles crunched softly under my boots as I stepped. We moved between bare stone walls, down an endless corridor, in the long, dancing shadows of the lanterns. The air was cold and damp, thick with the scent of old earth.

“It has been long since we last met,” Lysander said.

“Yeah,” I nodded. “I don’t dream much since I’ve been wearing the talisman.” I pulled the small pendant from under my shirt. Lysander slowly turned his gaze toward it, then just as slowly turned away.

“It dulls your power,” he said.

I shrugged. 

The corridor ended abruptly, and we came to a halt before a massive, ancient-looking door. Its gnarled, battered wood was held together by rusted iron plates. There was no handle, but Lysander wove a swift incantation into the air, and the door groaned open on creaking hinges.

Beyond the threshold stretched a vast chamber. Cool air rolled out, carrying a heavy, stale scent as Lysander glided over the threshold with his almost floating steps. He didn’t even glance back, simply gesturing for me to follow.

I hesitated. The place hadn’t been welcoming before, but this door sent actual shivers racing down my spine. Lysander stood motionless on the far side of the threshold. I couldn’t see anything of the hall beyond him—just an all-encompassing blackness. My stomach twisted painfully as I listened to faint, whispering voices drifting out from the void, eerily inhuman.

“What’s in there?” I asked.

“Answers,” Lysander replied.

I closed my eyes, yet the image of the door and Lysander’s purple cloak lingered in my mind as vividly as if I were still staring at them.

This is just a dream. My eyes are already shut.

I stepped across the threshold.

The door slammed shut behind me with a deafening bang, leaving us in utter darkness. Lysander’s bony, ice-cold fingers brushed against my shoulder.

“Come,” he said, and we moved deeper into the impenetrable blackness.

“You’re not real,” I said. My voice sounded small in the huge space.

“I am entirely real,” he replied, and his words echoed, deep and rolling around us.

“You’re…dead,” I wondered if it could be taken as an insult.

“Yes.”

It was unsettling to walk in complete darkness. The stone beneath my feet was hard, and I could feel its chill even through the thick soles of my boots. The cold air seeped under my clothes as well (in the dream, I wore a cloak as purple as Lysander’s). He led the way with confident strides, our footsteps making no echo.

It felt as though we were walking through magic: the air occasionally tickled me, brushed against my neck, or teased through my hair. My arm broke out in goosebumps. My fingers trembled, as though they were trying to weave spells into the air on their own—It was as if we were moving through the most ancient, darkest, most lethal magic imaginable.

But when I made the familiar motion to conjure a light sphere above our heads, nothing happened.

There was no light, but slowly, I started to be able to see the stone floor beneath our feet and the faint outline of Lysander’s purple cloak emerging from the gloom.

“Do you live here?” I asked.

“There was a time I spent much of my days here,” he replied.

“In the dark?”My tone caught awkwardly between sarcasm and dread.

“My work consumed the light,” he said. “And the magic.”

“What kind of…” 

I didn’t finish the question. As my eyes adjusted further to the darkness, the towering walls of the hall, lined with marble columns, began to take shape around us. Light from nowhere gleamed on iron, and as I strained my eyes, the dimness revealed—lined along the walls, nestled between columns, arranged on shelves, or hanging from the ceiling—hundreds of iron cages.

I froze in place. Lysander’s hand tensed on my shoulder, his ice-cold fingers slipping beneath my collar.

Every single cage was shut, and inside each one lay a once-beautiful bird. Remembrance Birds.

They were all dead.

A sharp tug at my collar, a startled cry—and I woke, tangled in my sheets in the Sanctum, gasping for breath.

 

*

 

I was taking the stairs two at a time, bracing a palm on the wall when I tripped, and I barged into Locke’s office—almost, if the door hadn’t been locked. 

Fuck, where could he be?

I tugged at the handle, but it wouldn’t budge.

Where is Locke? Is he working? Did he go to the library? Is he teaching?

Oh, damn—his bloody artefact legislation course.

Since the start of the winter semester, Locke had been holding a weekly course on artefact legislation (just as boring as it sounds). There were only two of us attending: Mirn, who had failed Locke’s impossibly hard exam in the summer semester and was now constantly tense and irritable, even though he already knew almost everything Locke was teaching us; and me, knowing nothing and caring very little about artefact legislation. 

What time was it? How long had I been asleep? That class must have ended by now, right?

I dashed back down the stairs, and there was Locke, coming down the corridor (how did he always manage to just appear ?) luckily for me, because I slipped on one of the lower steps and might have broken my neck if he hadn’t slowed my fall with a quick spell.

“Where is she?” I blurted, scrambling back to my feet.

Locke raised an eyebrow, his hand still lingering mid-air from casting the spell. “Excuse me?”

“The bird,” I clarified, straightening up and yanking my askew coat back onto my shoulders. “The Remembrance Bird. From the Lost Library.”

Locke blinked, confused, balancing a stack of books and papers in one arm. “It’s in Councillor Verdance’s care,” he said slowly, his tone sharpening, “as I’ve told you before. Now, would you—”

“Where?” I cut him off, shifting my weight like I would bolt as soon as he pointed me in the right direction.

Locke’s jaw tightened. “In Councillor Verdance’s care,” he repeated, slower this time, deliberate. He lowered his hand and brushed an invisible speck of dust off his sleeve. “Now calm yourself and explain why you’re in such a state.”

“I just–I need to visit her,” I said. “Could you tell me where Councillor Verdance keeps her? Or where I can find Councillor Verdance?”

His expression was unreadable as he adjusted the stack of books in his arm. “You missed my lesson,” he said flatly. 

“Yeah, I did. Can you answer me now, please?”

For a long moment, we stood in silence, beneath the spiral staircase leading to his office, him as still as a statue, me fidgeting, my heart pounding.

“No,” he said at last, his voice calm but firm.

I glared at him, groaning. “What the–”

“You are acting irrationally,” he interrupted, his tone suddenly sharper. “And it’s starting to concern me. If you—”

“Why can’t you just answer a simple question?” I exclaimed, waving my hands in frustration, the tension tight in my chest.

“Because you—” Locke began, his voice controlled but firm.

“I just want to speak with her,” I shot back, barely able to keep still.

“With Councillor Verdance? I’m sure she has regular—”

“No! With the bird!” I snapped, almost yelling. “The bird!”

Locke blinked at me, his expression hardening. “The bird.”

“Yes!” Is it really so difficult to understand?

He sighed, his voice taking on a more controlled edge. “William, it’s... a bird.”

“I fucking know, just–”

“It’s a bird,” Locke repeated, his voice cutting through my frustration. “It can’t talk .”

“Well, apparently neither do you, at least in all this time you still haven’t answered such a simple question…”

“Hm,” he said, unamused. “Clearly something is bothering you, but I’m not going to play into your dramatics. Start making sense, William. Now. Tell me what’s wrong.”

I took a deep breath. My fingers were drumming on the edge oy my coat, my weight shifting from one foot to the other. The silence stretched. I exhaled a bit shakily. 

This isn’t going to get me anywhere.

“Nothing,” I said finally. “Sorry.”

“William…” his tone was too soft now, almost cautious. 

“I’m sorry I missed your lesson,” I added quickly, rocking on the heel of my boot. “It won’t happen again.”

Locke’s gaze lingered on me for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You don’t seem sorry.” 

“I am,” I nodded vigorously, “I’m extremely and thoroughly sorry. I’ll find a way to catch up, I promise.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he just stood there, studying me. Something in his expression shifted, and I hated the feeling that he could see straight through me, into me. “Do not lie to me,” he said finally, his voice low and dangerous and almost a bit…sad?

“I’m not,” I said, shaking my head and stepping back, away from him, away from the spiral staircase. 

“Talk to me, please.”

“It was a mistake.” I took a few other big steps away. “I’m really sorry for bothering you.”

“William, you can’t just–”

I absolutely could. I turned on my heel and ran away. 

 

It felt ridiculous that I’d been living in the Sanctum for months and still had no idea how to find a Councillor—or even the place where she worked. I dashed around the next corner to get out of Locke's sight, but then stopped, utterly clueless, glancing around as though a sign might suddenly appear, pointing the way to Councillor Verdance’s office.

During my wanderings around the Sanctum, I’d already discovered quite a few things—like the alabaster gate on the sixth storey, which transported you back to the other side of the corridor (never understood why; it’d only take ten seconds to walk there, but it was still fun); a small garden with no windows overlooking it, where rabbits hopped through the grass beneath fruit trees; and my personal favourite, the Warden's Walk, a secluded rooftop path with a sweeping view over the Sanctum. But I’d never ventured to a place where the Councillor of Flora and Fauna might keep her specimens. In fact, I didn’t even know who Councillor Verdance was.

I raised my hand and wove a quick pathfinder spell, paying it little attention, already certain it wouldn’t work—the spell was complex and required intense focus, not to mention that the Sanctum was already overflowing with enchantments that could disrupt or outright block such magic. It also didn’t really help that I didn’t even know where I was trying to go...

I lowered my hand in surprise as a faint glow began to shimmer just above the floor, marking the direction I was meant to follow. What could this be? Where was it leading?  

No way it actually worked…

I followed the glowing path through twisting corridors, staircases, a hidden passage I hadn't known existed, and countless more long hallways, until I arrived at a large, arched door made of dark wood and engraved with intricate, intertwining vines. I had been here before, but the door had no markings and was always locked, so I’d never discovered where it led. This time, I placed my palm against the wood, murmured an unlocking spell, and the door creaked softly as it opened.

Strange .

The space beyond was expansive and filled with light. Doors lined the walls on either side (one bore a small brass plaque that read: Prona Verdance, Flora and Fauna.) But my attention was immediately drawn to the grand door directly ahead. Above it, an ornate inscription read: The Vivarium .

I pressed down on the heavy brass handle, and the door creaked open with a low, groaning sound.

The Vivarium unfolded beneath me like a breathtaking landscape as I stepped onto the high wrought-iron walkway. The air was warm and alive, filled with the scent of damp earth and greenery. Everything was built of glass and iron: the walkways, the stairs, the clearly separated sections of different biomes: right below me was something that looked like a jungle, green and misty and filled with life. There were enclosures for animals (and some of the plants were behind bars, too), and I could see the yellow eyes of a cat-like creature pacing with measured steps, its black fur glittering like the night sky full of stars. 

I descended a winding staircase and walked past a desert-like area where the air was dry, and sunlight seemed to shine more intensely. Lizards rested in the sand, and in a large cage, a dunewalker slept. In a glass terrarium, a swarm of moth-like creatures fed on… something meaty.

As fascinating as all of this was, I tried not to stop and gawk. It would be better to find the bird before someone else found me here. The pathfinding spell was still glowing faintly, and I followed it quickly, moving through more iron walkways and stairs—through ice fields, pine forests, meadows, and across a small lake—until I reached a quiet, peaceful grove.

It was a serene place, small, but stretching up high above me, the walls curving upwards into a vaulted ceiling. Huge oak trees grow around me, their leaves rustling softly in the wind, and the underbush was full of delicate, white flowers. The light was soft, calming, and the iron walkway ended and I stepped down to soft, green grass. The air was thick with the scent of earth and the sweet fragrance of the flowers, almost too sweet, drowsy. 

There were barred enclosures hidden between the trees, and it only took a few glances at the plaques fixed to the bars for the grove to shift from peaceful to distinctly unnerving. Mindweaver spider. Foresight owl. The Memory Eater’s cage seemed suspiciously empty, though perhaps it just hadn’t consumed enough memories to take shape yet. In a pen woven with dense magic, a banshee silently wept at the base of a tree. The phantom hound stood in the center of its enclosure, its red eyes fixed on me, and it licked the edges of its mouth hungrily.

What the hell.

I hurried along, and after a bend in the path, I finally found myself before a circular aviary. It was spacious, filled with lush greenery, and even had a small stream trickling across the ground. The Remembrance Bird was perched high up in a tree, her black feathers gleaming with subtle hues of deep red, blue, and green as the light filtered through the canopy.

I let out a relieved sigh. The image of the underground hall, filled with the dead birds, suddenly seemed much less real in my mind. 

She lifted her head, her gaze meeting mine as I stood motionless on the other side of the bars. After a few sleepy blinks, she spread her wings, rose into the air, and, with an elegant motion, settled on a closer branch.

“I’m…” My voice came out strangely hoarse, and I had to clear my throat before continuing. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I never wanted you to end up here.”

She tilted her head, blinking slowly, deliberately.

I stepped closer, so near that my nose almost brushed the thin wrought-iron bars.

“I… I had this dream,” I whispered, though even my quiet voice felt too loud in this place. I feared the other creatures might hear, though I had no idea if any of them could understand human speech. I hoped they couldn’t. “I… I needed to… see you.”

She just stared at me, her eyes so deep and black I found it hard to look away.

“I was underground,” I continued, “in some huge hall. It was dark, and... there were so many of your kind. In cages. I didn’t want you to— to die, but… by the time I got there, it was already too late.”

She remained still. Her eyes stayed fixed on me, but I had the unsettling feeling she wasn’t really looking at me anymore. Not a single feather shifted.

“What happened?” I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper.

For a long time, nothing happened. She was as still as a statue. The silence was so absolute it felt as though even the rustling of leaves and the babbling of the brook had faded into nothingness.

Then, slowly, she tilted her head, and I flinched. A sharp pain pierced my chest, and suddenly I was seeing memories—but they weren’t my own.

Darkness. Cages. Magic so cruel and oppressive it turned my stomach and raised goosebumps across my skin. Birds. Memories. Joy and sorrow. Death. Grief. Mourning. A purple cloak. Human voices—shouts, sobs, fear. Tendrils of darkness rising from a shattered stone slab. Pain. 

 

I gripped the bars as the memories began to fade, and the bird started to sing, a slow, sorrowful melody, something that sounded like a language but was definitely not human.

I placed my hand on the aviary door, chest rising, my heart beating painfully, and to hell with all the protective spells , I murmured a simple unlocking spell.

First, I heard the clicks of locks—before me, behind me, and all around, echoing from the furthest corners of the Vivarium.

Second, my hand flew to my neck, my fingers frantically searching beneath my collar for the cord of the talisman–

Third, I was slammed onto my back as the phantom hound lunged onto my chest, sinking its teeth deep into my shoulder.

 

Notes:

I'm glad you're here, hope you're all having a nice week ^^

For those of you with upcoming holidays, I wish you a wonderful holiday season 🎄🎄🎄

Chapter 28: Alone

Summary:

"And Locke? Too angry? Doesn’t even care? Had I failed him completely?"

 

They said my only stroke of luck was that the warding spells alerted Councillor Verdance the moment I entered the Vivarium without authorisation. She instantly went to investigate, found me, and it was Verdance herself who rescued me from the phantom hound. 

“The phantom hound feeds on suffering,” she said a week later, standing next to my bed in the old and empty infirmary. Her posture was rigid, her hands clasped behind her back, the light catching the silver streaks in her hair. “It wounds for the pleasure of it, leaving just enough life to let its prey linger in misery.”

I sat propped up against a pillow, my gaze fixed firmly on the white blanket draped over my legs. My left shoulder was still covered in bandages, from my collarbone and shoulder blades down to my elbow. 

Verdance’s tone was cold, almost mocking, but I forced myself to stay still—I probably deserved it anyway.

“Its teeth, as you may have noticed yourself, differ greatly from the jaws of most predators," she continued, stepping a little closer. “The fangs are jagged, designed to inflict the most dreadful damage and pain on its victim. When it bit you, those teeth didn’t just tear through the skin, flesh, and muscle; they shredded and ripped them apart, leaving behind a ragged, irregular wound. That’s deliberate. It is how the venom spreads more effectively.”

Well, good for the hound.

I just nodded, avoiding her eyes.

“Once the venom enters the bloodstream, it embeds itself in the walls of your veins, preventing the blood from clotting properly, making it exceedingly hard to heal.” She paused, tilting her head. “Even now, under that generous dose of numbing potion, you can feel it, can’t you? That ache deep in your bones? That is the venom seeping into the marrow. Not lethal, no, but excruciating.”

My hands fidgeted with the blanket, and for a brief moment, I dared to look up at her. She had moved to my bedside table, her arms crossed, idly inspecting the vials of healing potions as though this conversation was just another mundane task in her day.

“But the mind,” she said, lifting one of the vials and holding it up to the light, “the mind is where the phantom hound truly excels. With its bite, it doesn’t just cause pain—it also collects that pain. Its venom becomes saturated with it. And when it strikes again, the next victim receives and experiences all those feelings of suffering." She gave the vial a slight shake, watching as the thick liquid swirled inside. “I’m sure you can imagine it, can’t you? You’ve experienced how the bite doesn’t just bring that dreadful pain of your body being torn apart, but with it, you feel all the suffering the phantom hound has collected from all its previous victims, the pain, the despair, the fear of death, the hopelessness… And the hound gathers more and more of your suffering. That’s how they feed. That’s how they grow stronger.”

Her lips curled slightly, the faintest hint of amusement in her otherwise detached expression. “I have seen people break under the weight of it, their minds unraveling as they begged for death. The hound doesn’t just feed on flesh—it feasts on torment.”

She set the vial down with a soft clink and turned her piercing gaze back to me. “You were lucky it didn’t have much time to play with you. Only a small amount of venom reached your system. That, and your overly lenient mentor insisted we keep you unconscious while the worst of it burned out of your blood.” Her tone dropped, her words cold and sharp. “I would have kept you awake. It would have been a valuable experience. Educational. Truly unforgettable.”

I had always imagined that people who worked with plants and animals were kind. Caring. This was certainly a bit of an ugly generalisation—but even the old storybooks always depicted magicians whose element was the earth this way. Friendly, perhaps a little absent-minded, always covered with a bit of soil, surrounded by animals.

Well, Verdance just stood motionless, arms crossed once again, looking down at me with pursed lips.

“I’m…” My voice was still raspy a bit. “I’m really sorry, Councillor Verdance.”

Verdance didn’t move, her eyes flicking briefly over the medical table beside me, to the vials of dozen different potions they were giving me, then back to me, my white sheets, my crumpled clothes. I was acutely aware of my bandaged shoulder and the way my body still felt weak and fragile.

“My whole department worked for three days straight to ensure that every individual in the Vivarium was collected and organised again,” she said, turning her head away, looking out the window. “Every enclosure was locked again, and we took care of the health and well-being of every resident of the Vivarium. Three spectral snakes, a frostfox, a whole swarm of Anpora’s Green Beetles, and a pondful of yellow-feathered pike perished. A great deal of other creatures were injured, and many of them have not yet recovered.”

“I’m sorry,” I repeated in a low voice.

“A swarm of icemice broke into the desert biome and ate all the glimmerweed, a plant that is now rarely found in nature, and whose cultivation in the Vivarium played a major role in preserving the species. As for now, only a few plants remain, and several of the mice have become ill. One of the sick mice was eaten by a ravenhawk, which then lost all its feathers. And that’s just one segment of the chaos that unfolded in the Vivarium.”

“I’m sorry,” I repeated, staring at my hands twisting the blanket in my lap. “I never wanted... if I could turn back time…”

“With that power of yours, I wouldn’t be surprised if you could,” she scoffed, her sharpness softening for the first time as she studied me thoughtfully. “In any case, the Vivarium has been under construction for over a thousand years. It’s a constantly evolving place, filled with life and magic; a sanctuary of growth, progress, knowledge, and safety. It has survived fires. Plagues. The darkest of wars—”

“Sorry,” I said again, more quietly this time. My tongue felt thick, my lips dry. Even I could hear how flat my apology sounded, like I was parroting it out of obligation instead of meaning it. But I did mean it. Didn’t I?

She just waved her hand dismissively. “It will survive an undisciplined and irresponsible young magician.”

Undisciplined. Irresponsible.

“You know,” Verdance continued, “during that disciplinary hearing of yours, I voted to have you imprisoned.”

My chest tightened, even though this wasn’t such a big surprise. I glanced up at her.

“Prove that you can learn some control,” she said, her voice as sharp as her glare, “and if such a vote comes up again, I might decide differently. Right now, you pose a danger. If your master can’t keep you in check, this could end quite tragically.”

My jaw clenched, but I managed to nod stiffly. “Yes, Councillor,” I muttered.

Verdance watched me for what felt like forever, her gaze heavy, her eyes contemplating. Finally, she sighed, shaking her head. “You need to rest. I think a healer is going to check on you soon.”

I nodded again. I wanted her to leave, but I also didn’t want to be left alone. 

Finally, she turned and started toward the door, her steps measured, definite. “Um, “I said. “Councillor Verdance?” 

She turned her questioning gaze back to me.

“Can I ask you something?”

“You can.”

“The bird…” My fingers gripped the blanket tightly. “What happened to the Remembrance Bird?”

She took a breath before answering, her face softening a bit. “Nothing,” she said. “She didn’t even leave her aviary. She is fine. Healthy. Strengthening.”

I bit my lip, letting out a relieved sigh. “That’s—nice. Thank you, Councillor Verdance.”

She nodded, and without other words, she stepped to the door. She paused at the threshold, her hand resting on the doorknob, and for a fleeting moment I thought she might have something else to say.

She didn’t.

The door clicked shut behind her, and I was alone again, the infirmary big and dusty and eerily quiet. 

I stared at the door for some time. I didn’t have anything else to do anyway.

The old infirmary had stone walls, lined with wooden shelves and heavy tapestries. The air smelled like herbs, dusty but also too clean, clinging to the back of my throat. 

Everything hurt. The bandage on my left shoulder pulled uncomfortably whenever I moved—although I could hardly move at all: the dull pain spread through my entire body, and as Verdance had said, it went deep into my bones.

I sat up a bit to lean against the pillows more comfortably, and even that small movement sent a sharp twinge racing through my body, and I winced, sucking in a slow breath through gritted teeth. There was no such thing as comfortable.

The healers had given me nine different potions at various times, each accompanied by different spells. One was for the pain, one to try to cleanse the poison. Two were to suppress my magic, making my head feel strangely heavy and my skin tingle. There was one to help me sleep, and another to keep the nightmares at bay.

I couldn’t focus on the other three when the healer was explaining.

I shifted, wishing I was able to stay still. Everything felt heavy and exhausted, my movements slow and clumsy. I closed my eyes, and the bizarre tapestries on the walls, the ancient vials forgotten on the shelves and the dust floating in the air disappeared. But the creak of the bed beneath me, the faint hum of magic in the walls, and the acrid taste of the potions lingering on my tongue—seemingly forever.

 

Locke was here the morning they woke me up, after seven days of being kept unconscious. He stood among a bunch of healers, while I just blinked up at them, too sore to move and too numb to even try to speak. They wove spells and poked at my skin and shone bright lights into my eyes, talking about possible doses of potions and risks and side effects. 

The next few days blurred in my mind. Healers came and went, measuring out potions and making me drink them, weaving spells around me, observing, examining. Then came Verdance, cold and hard and stern. Nobody else. 

…Not Locke.

 

The next day Sol visited me. He brought notes from the lessons I had missed. He said that, to some extent, everyone knew what had happened in the Vivarium, but he hadn’t met anyone who truly understood anything about it... I told him I didn’t understand either, because I didn’t want to get into details about dreams, purple-cloaked dead and mysterious birds. When Sol left, I wondered if I was going to lose the only person who might actually be my friend.

 

In the next few days Tessa and Olivia came too, bringing flowers for my bedside table (there wasn’t enough room because of all the potions, so they ended up placing them on a nearby table), comforting me with words that all is right and everything will be fine (though we didn’t get into the details of what exactly wasn’t fine). One morning, Mirn and Gavin showed up; Mirn asked when I’d be well enough to return to classes, complaining that he’d already endured Locke’s artifact legislation course twice on his own and was losing his mind at the thought of sitting through it a third time. I told him that would probably be the case, since I could barely move, and if avoiding those dreadful lessons meant staying here forever, I was perfectly fine with that. Mirn laughed and said he didn’t envy me for having Locke as my master. Gavin stood a little further back, stiffly, but wished me a speedy recovery before they left.

Strange .

 

Sol came again, bringing more and more notes. He talked about the lessons, the twenty-eight-step cleansing ritual he was currently learning, and shared some gossip about a seventh-year apprentice, Torvi, who had asked a city girl to marry her–and received a yes. Sol even offered to bring me some books from the library, which was tempting, but I ultimately said no, not wanting to get him into trouble.

 

As I started to feel a little better (though not by much), the old infirmary became increasingly dull and oppressive. The healers visited regularly, measuring out potions and weaving spells around me, asking questions and nodding gravely. They didn’t speak much beyond that. Moving was still painful even days later, and one evening, when I tried to stand up just out of sheer boredom, I got so dizzy that I collapsed and hit my head hard on the floor. The healer who found me half an hour later gave me a thorough scolding and made me promise no less than ten times that I would stay in bed. I rolled my eyes but promised, even for the tenth time.

 

Sol brought me a book which contained Eef Zanokuhle Aarle’s selected stories about his years in exile, and according to Sol, it was much more exciting than it first seemed.

“I know Locke banned you from the library,” he said, pressing the book into my hands, “but this one’s mine. I don’t think it would break any rules if your friends lend you books.”

I might have teased him a little about how he, the perfect apprentice, the model student, was bending the rules for my sake, but in the meantime he had just called himself my friend, and for some reason that touched me in such an odd way that all I could manage was a quiet “thank you.”

 

I was getting better at moving my arm. The deep, persistent pain in my bones still lingered, constant but faint. If it weren’t for the persistent heaviness and dizziness in my head, I could almost ignore the aches altogether.

“This just makes me feel worse,” I told the healer as she measured out the evening draught meant to suppress my magic. (It was effective: even summoning a simple light sphere felt clumsy and weak.) “This is why my head feels so weird, isn’t it? If I didn’t have to drink this, I’d almost be fine by now.”

“You feel almost fine because of the high dose of painkillers,” the healer replied, her eyes fixed on the vial she was carefully measuring the potion into.

“All right, fine, but the point is, this isn’t helping. If I weren’t constantly dizzy, I wouldn’t need to lie here any longer.”

“Yes, unfortunately, there are side effects,” she said, casting me a sympathetic glance this time.

“So if—”

She handed me the potion. “Drink it.”

“But—”

“Your master has ordered that as long as you’re here, you’re to take the potion.”

“Well, he’s not here right now to tell me what to do, is he?”

“As it happens, I completely agree with him. And I think everyone else does too. Drink it, please.”

I shot her an annoyed glance, but drank, the cold potion tasting bitter and oily against my throat. I restrained myself from making a disgusted face, and handed the vial back to the healer. 

“Thank you,” I murmured.

I read Sol’s book, which really turned out to be much more interesting than I’d first thought.

I also read the notes he brought from his classes.

Out of boredom, I stared at the tapestries on the wall, memorising every tiny detail of the ancient healing techniques displayed in the faded patterns.

I counted every single tile on the back wall of the infirmary.

I learned the eighteen steps of proper bellmoon peeling from Sol’s notes, so thoroughly that I could have listed them backwards.

But with nothing better to do, I ended up spending most of my time dwelling on my hopeless situation.

Undisciplined. Irresponsible.

The more I thought about what had happened, the more certain I became that I was an incredibly terrible magician. Back in the monastery, when I was just quietly practicing magic on my own, things went reasonably well. But of course, I didn’t know back then that I apparently have an unusually strong magic; with this undeservedly great amount of power, learning those simple spells was hardly an impressive achievement.

And since I’ve been here? What have I accomplished? Things like blowing up a cauldron, summoning a storm, destroying Locke’s cabinet, unleashing a tidying spell on the library, transporting myself in my sleep to near-certain death… what an impressive list of achievements.

 

And Locke? Too angry? Doesn’t even care? Had I failed him completely?

Sometimes, I thought I heard footsteps in the hallway or the door creaking open. Then I would just lie there, drowning in self-pity and wondering how I could have been so stupid when no one actually came. Especially not Locke.

So I just curled up (despite the sharp pain it sent through my shoulder, because at least I felt something ), and for the thousandth time, I imagined what would happen if Locke finally showed up. It wasn’t a very long daydream: I saw him walk through the door, and then—then? Would I apologise? Beg him not to leave me alone? Glare at him in silence? Sulk? 

Maybe he had better things to do—smarter apprentices to teach, neater ones who didn’t leave a trail of destruction everywhere they went.

I squeezed my eyes shut and imagined Locke—no, tried not to imagine him—but failed—imagined him as when we were in his bedroom—when he performed drills on the training ground, graceful and flowing—the way he looked at me when I rolled my eyes—his unreadable face—his hands on my skin—

The silence in the infirmary grew louder, and I wanted to scream, wanted to cry, wanted to set the whole damned place on fire—

Everything hurt so much.

Notes:

Happy new year!!!

Chapter 29: Visit

Summary:

Locke finally visits Will!

When I woke up, Locke was there.

He leaned against the neighboring bed, ankles crossed casually, arms folded across his chest.

His rigid face, clenched jaw, and the dark glint in his eyes didn’t match his relaxed posture at all.

He didn’t say anything at first. His eyes roamed over me, sharp and calculating, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low and clipped. “Where is it?”

I blinked, groggy, trying to sit up, squinting bitterly as my vision blurred for a moment from the sudden movement. I pulled the blanket over my rumpled shirt and tried to hide how much I had to lean on my arm just to stay sitting up. “Where’s what?”

“The talisman.” His voice was icy, and by his annoyed face I knew instantly that I absolutely failed to hide my discomfort. He stepped to the bedside table and sifted through the many vials before finding my morning anesthetic. Despite ignoring me for over a week,  he knew the precise amount to measure. 

“Drink,” he said, holding the small measuring cup out to me.

“I don’t need it,” I said, the words coming out sharper than I intended. 

Locke didn’t seem fazed, his eyes never leaving mine. “Drink.”

I couldn’t tell if it was the command itself or his tone that made my stomach tighten painfully, but I took the cup and swallowed the liquid. 

He stepped back and leaned against the bed again as I set down the empty cup. It helped that he wasn’t standing so close to me anymore, that I couldn’t feel the warmth of his body, that he didn’t seem so tall—but his gaze still bore down on me with the same heavy weight.

“Where is it?” he repeated.

“I–” Where have you been until now? What’s going to happen to me now? Do you even care? “I–”

“This is a simple enough question. Where is the talisman?”

I could see it now, the edge of fury in the set of his face. His jaw was tight, his lips barely moving as he spoke. His eyes were darker than usual, and there was an unsettling stillness in him that made my stomach drop.

“I–”

There was a long pause. I turned my eyes away, unable to bear his gaze any longer. My fingers tightened around my blanket, my heart beating fast and heavy in my chest, my head pounding and still dizzy. 

I have to say something– I opened my mouth, but nothing came. Not the truth. Not even a lie. 

His eyes narrowed. “I’m not going to ask again.”

Well, it would actually be really nice if you finally stopped asking–

And then what? Just leave me here again? 

Why didn’t you come sooner? You left me fucking alone for a week. And now you are only interested in the talisman? Well–

Well, yeah, I definitely wasn’t worth more of his attention. 

He took a deep breath. “If you–”

“I don’t know!” I hadn’t meant to snap, but my voice came out sharp anyway. My right hand slapped against the blanket, and I turned my head away so I wouldn’t have to see the way he was looking at me.

“Did you remove it on purpose?”

“No.”

“Then what happened to it? They didn’t find it in the Vivarium.”

“I don’t know,” I repeated.

“William—”

“Is that why you’re here?” I turned back to him, but only to glare angrily. “You ignore me for days, and then, when you finally show up, you start interrogating me about where that damn talisman is? That’s it? Are you about to tell me you expect me to show up for training at dawn tomorrow? And not to be late? Is this what took you days? Practicing the lecture you’re about to deliver? I get it—you have to make sure I’m not dangerous, that I won’t blow up the Sanctum, that I won’t ruin your reputation. That’s your responsibility, nothing more.” I let out an angry sigh and resisted the urge to throw a pillow at his face. “I didn’t want this to happen. I’m sorry you didn’t get a better apprentice, someone who gets everything right the first time and someone you can actually be proud of…”

“William–”

“You’ve already given up on me, haven’t you?” I settled for tossing a pillow to the ground. “That’s why you didn’t even bother to show up until now. This is a nice reason to finally get rid of me, isn’t it?”

“No. If you would–”

“I thought we had– something– something , but now I see it was just another way for you to control me. Was it all part of the training? Did you think sleeping with me would make me more obedient?”

“You can’t think–”

“Don’t fucking tell me what I can think. You talked all the time about discipline, and all those trainings, all those drills, all… that — just another way to keep me in line. What was the plan? You fucking used me. I thought we had… what it was… I felt… Fuck, it was just a twisted way to keep me in line, wasn’t it?”

Locke didn’t move a muscle, but there was a subtle shift in his stance—in the way he held his crossed arms, in the way he lifted his head, in the way he looked down at me through narrowed eyes. I thought he might yell—finally—but instead, his voice came low and cold, sharp. “Is that what you think of me?” He paused briefly. I stared at him with heaving breaths, dazed from the throbbing in my head. “After everything… is that really what you believe?”

I wanted nothing more than to sink into the bed and disappear. I wanted to cry, or throw a vial at him, or climb out of the bed and either hug him or claw his eyes out. Or—

“Yes,” I said finally, my voice small and hoarse. “Yes. You don’t care about me. You never did. All that talk about control, discipline, trust—it was just words. Just a game for you to feel important. The things we did—it wasn’t even good for me, you know. I just let you because I thought it might make you stop looking at me like I’m a problem you can’t solve. But it didn’t work, did it?”

My whole body was trembling. I hated myself. I was sure Locke did too. 

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. It made my skin crawl. I wanted him to shout, to show me that he was as angry as I was, to let me feel  his rage. 

It was a bit hard to breathe.

Then he stepped closer, his fingers touching my shoulder, gently, cautiously, then his palm traced wide circles on my back, holding and soothing me as I leaned forward, letting my head knock down on my pulled-up knees as I let out a broken sob.

For a long time, the silence was broken only by my ragged breaths, the cries that rose from deep within me, and Locke murmuring things in a soft voice that I could not pay attention to. 

I let my body collapse forward, wrapping my arms around my knees and burying my face in the crook of my arms, my tears soaking into the sleeve of my shirt.

Minutes passed like this.

Locke’s presence was so steady, so sure, so comforting–

“Go away,” I managed to croak between two sobs.

“No,” he said simply, his palm warm on my back, his other hand holding my shoulder.

I sniffed, wiping my eyes on the blanket. He handed me a handkerchief. I tried to take deeper breaths, to slow the wild rise and fall of my chest, the pounding of my heart. My head still ached so hard as though it might split open at any moment.

“You should be so angry,” I mumbled.

“I am,” he said.

“I don’t know what happened to the talisman,” I whispered, clearing my throat a bit, burying my face into the blanket. “I was… I had a dream. I haven’t had a single... vivid... dream like this since I started wearing the talisman. I dreamt about the Remembrance Bird. Afterward... I wanted to find her. I didn’t notice the talisman was missing until that moment, when I spoke the opening spell. I realised what was happening and I searched for the talisman, but…”

“The phantom hound attacked you,” finished Locke.

“Yes.” There was a long pause. His warm palm continued to draw soothing circles on my back. I could feel his gaze on me, but I remained motionless, my head lowered, my forehead resting on my pulled-up knees. “I’m sorry,” I added. 

I heard him sigh. “I was absolutely furious,” he said. “What you did... breaking into the Vivarium was unbelievably foolish and irresponsible. There are rules in the Sanctum, and those rules exist for a reason. It’s already suspicious and alarming enough that you managed to break into the Vivarium despite all the protective spells, but even more concerning is the fact that you did it without a second thought…”

I lifted my head from my knees just enough to mumble, “So you did come here just to lecture me.”

He shifted, his weight pressing the mattress a bit differently. His hand remained on my back as he continued. “You were reckless, William. You have been reckless many times before, and now... I know you are not to blame for what happened with the opening spell and the phantom hound. But none of this would have happened if you hadn’t rushed off on your own, if you had stopped to think, if you hadn’t broken the rules without a second thought.”

I flinched, biting into my lip.

“I know dreams can have a powerful influence—and don’t think we won’t be talking about this particular dream a lot more—but you didn’t stop to think about what you were doing, didn’t wait enough for you to realise that the talisman was gone. You didn’t stop to think about what might happen to you. You just… acted."

“I—” I tried to interrupt, but he cut me off.

“No. Let me finish.” His voice softened slightly, but there was still an edge to it. “Do you have any idea what it was like to walk into the Vivarium and see the aftermath? To see your blood on the ground? There was a lot of blood, William. And to hear what happened and realise that I… that I let it happen?”

His voice faltered, and I blinked, quickly lifting my head. “What?”

“When you came looking for me, before the Vivarium, it was clear something was wrong. I should have stopped you. I saw how restless, how distracted you were… If I had stepped in, if I hadn’t let you go, none of this would have happened.”

I scoffed. “You couldn’t have known.”

“I could see how frantic you were. I should have–”

“So this is why you didn’t come for so long? You were wallowing in self-pity?”

His palm stiffened for a moment on my back. I heard another sigh.

Then the mattress shifted behind me as he stood up, and my shoulder felt too cold where his hand had just been. With another sigh, he grabbed a chair and placed it beside the bed, then sat down with a straight back, his fingers interlaced in his lap, and gave me a stern look.

“Sorry,” I mumbled. 

“There was a Dusk-attack in a nearby village,” he said. His voice was neutral and measured, but his gaze never left my face. “I spent a significant amount of time there, repelling the attack and supporting the injured. A few people were really close to losing their lives, including a local magician who tried to help defend his community.”

I stared at him, swallowing hard. “But... why? How?”

“No one knows,” he replied, then rubbed his face with a tired gesture. “It was followed by several Council meetings, trying to understand the reasons, trying to prepare, constructing a defense plan.”

I just nodded, twisting my fingers under the blanket. Suddenly, I felt deeply ashamed for accusing him of self-pity just a few moments ago. 

“At least I wasn’t there this time,” I said, then continued quickly, “I mean, damn, I know this is horrible, but you know... at least it doesn’t look like I have anything to do with it now, right?”

“Right,” he said slowly. “Anyway, I barely stayed in the Sanctum for days. After that…” He paused for a moment, using the time to stare uncomfortably at my face. “You are not going to like this.”

I shrugged – it didn’t seem like it could get any worse than this. “What?”

From the pocket of his coat, he pulled out a small object and extended it toward me. It was a talisman, hanging on a black leather cord: small, round, and flat, the stone smooth to the touch and light in my palm.

“It looks exactly like the other one,” I said, gently touching the stone with one finger. I knew it wasn’t the same: the magic it radiated felt foreign, the faint hum in my fingers completely different from the first talisman.

“It’s stronger,” Locke replied, leaning a little closer. “There are dozens of spells protecting this infirmary right now, and you’re taking two different potions that help keep your magic under control. I’m not worried about you blowing up the Sanctum or ruining my reputation—” he gave me a disapproving look, and I lowered my gaze as he repeated my earlier words, “—but I’m worried something like the Lost Library might happen again. It was sheer luck that you survived that incident, and I don’t want to risk another one. I know eventually you will be able to properly control your power, but—”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” I interrupted.

“— but as long as you are at risk because of it, we need to make sure it’s contained. This talisman is much stronger than the last one.”

I could feel that—just holding it in my palm was enough for its power to seep into my skin, threading through my magic, pushing it down, suppressing it.

“You were right—I really don’t like this,” I said quietly.

“This is the best solution,” Locke replied, his tone firm. “You can’t keep taking these potions forever—they have side effects.”

“And the magic in the infirmary? What about the spells that could help?”

Locke raised one eyebrow. “Only if you want to stay here forever.”

“Well, it’s actually kind of pleasant…” I caught his don’t-even-joke look. “No.”

“This is the best solution,” he repeated. “I’m not going to wait for you to get hurt even more, or for you to break some rule that could seriously get you in trouble.”

I fiddled with the corner of my blanket, avoiding his gaze.

“And… now? I mean…how much trouble am I in now?”

He didn’t answer immediately. When I glanced at him from the corner of my eye, he was studying me thoughtfully.

“The Council discussed the events in the Vivarium,” he said slowly, and I could already picture another meeting, the condemning faces of the Councillors, the cell they would want to toss me in... “Councillor Verdance did not file a complaint against you. She spoke in detail about the damages, which many other Council members were involved in repairing, so everyone knows exactly what you did. But there is no official punishment.”

I stared at him, then down at my blanket. I shifted into a cross-legged position, smoothing my shirt down. 

“That’s… good, I guess,” I mumbled. The relief felt strangely hollow. 

“You are being given the chance to learn,” said Locke flatly.

“You disagree with the Council?” I asked.

His expression remained unreadable. “No,” he said simply.

I absentmindedly played with the white cotton cover of the blanket. “Well, you are… you are my master. You can punish me whenever you want.”

“I want you to understand what happened and what could have happened differently. You were reckless. If you had stopped to think, if you had followed the rules, none of this would have happened.”

“I'm sorry,” I mumbled.

“I still haven’t been able to teach you that using magic comes with responsibility. That in order to succeed, you need to be disciplined and composed. In your studies, you need to be obedient, attentive, and committed.”

“I know.”

“You aren’t acting like you know.”

I gripped the blanket tighter, and he sighed, deeply, wearily. 

“I’m not giving up on you,” he stated, and I knew this gentle and measured voice was deliberate, trying to calm me.

“You couldn’t,” I remarked, shrugging, “you know, magical bond as an apprentice and all.”

He sighed again, then stood up. “You need rest,” he stated.

“I’ve been doing nothing but resting for a week,” I replied.

“The healers will reduce your doses,” he continued, ignoring my comment. “Wear the amulet. If you handle the reduction in painkillers well, you may be able to leave the infirmary in a few days. After that, we will slowly resume your studies and training. You need to regain your strength.”

“Oh, I’m in amazing strength. I might not manage to stand up very often, but otherwise, we could totally start training like tomorrow–”

“Hush.” His tone was calm but final. I shut my mouth. “Rest now,” he continued as he stepped towards the door. “Let your body recover. There will be time for everything else soon enough.”

I bit my lip, trying to collect my thoughts— “Stop that,” commanded Locke, and I blinked, surprised, then realising what he meant, let my lip go. 

“I was thinking,” I said, my voice barely above a murmur, “what if I had stayed at the monastery? I couldn’t always control my power there either, but as long as I didn’t attempt anything complicated, it usually wasn’t a big deal. Do you think if I had stayed there and stuck to mediocre spells, no one would have ever found out something was wrong with my power?”

“There is nothing wrong with your power.”

“You know what I mean.”

He sighed, tilting his head to the side as though weighing his words carefully. “No, I don’t think things would have been any better if you had stayed there—in fact, they might have been worse. Sure, now that you have been learning so much and growing stronger so quickly, everything has escalated. But here, at least, you are safe, surrounded by people who can help you, who can watch over you. In a monastery, losing control could have had unimaginable consequences. I believe it was for the best that you ended up here.”

I swallowed, staring at my blanket for a while. Then I looked up at him.“So… you are saying that in the end it’s a good thing that I tried to steal that book?”

I had to admit, part of me was amused by the way he stiffened—but his narrowing eyes were far more intimidating. “No,” he said. “That was reckless and foolish. That too .”

I rolled my eyes. “Come on–”

“No. Let’s make this a new rule, shall we? You don’t get to joke about things that nearly got you publicly flogged, or killed , or anything else that ended with you in a similarly unpleasant situation. Are we clear on that?”

“Clear… Not even when I’m dying inside listening to your lectures?”

He just stared at me for a long moment, his lips pressed into a thin line as he took a deep breath. “Rest,” he said finally. He was already by the door when he turned back again. “Oh, and William? I don't want to hear anymore about the healers having to argue with you to get you to take your potions. Understood?”

“Yes, Councillor Locke,” I murmured.

“Good. I will check on you later.” He turned and exited swiftly.

I sank back into the pillow. My head was still throbbing. I clenched my hand around the talisman and thought about how good it would feel to slam it into the wall—or the window glass—but I didn't even have the strength to stand, let alone make it to the window. 

Notes:

I hope you all are having a great week ^^

Chapter 30: If You Would Even Care

Summary:

just a little more tension

Notes:

Hi! Enjoy! ^^

(Also: past tenses confuse me. and so do commas.)

After leaving the infirmary, I spent almost two weeks recovering in my room. During the first few days, Finnian brought me food, until I grew fed up with it and, one morning, dragged myself to the Refectory ahead of him. On the way back, I could barely stand, but Locke’s disapproving face waiting in front of my door made the suffering worth it (though the throbbing headache that lasted all day was a bit much).

“You must rest,” declared Locke.

“I’m resting,” I replied, already sitting on the edge of my bed where he’d helped me from the door.

“Finnian will bring–”

“There’s no need. How am I supposed to regain my strength if I just lie here all day?”

“You won’t regain your strength by passing out on the way to the Refectory. We will work on rebuilding your strength slowly and safely.”

“But—”

“No. If you leave your room without permission, I will send you straight back to the infirmary.”

“Then give me permission!”

Locke took a deep breath, but I could already see his expression softening. That had been happening more and more lately.

“Fine. Where do you want to go?”

“The library,” I blurted, fully expecting him to reject it without a second thought.

“All right,” he said.

For a moment, I just stared at him, dumbfounded. “Really?”

“Yes,” he nodded.

Seriously? After all this? You’re even making concessions now?

But I decided to keep those thoughts to myself.

“Oh. Well... thank you.”

“This afternoon,” he added. “And you are not going anywhere without me. And until then, you rest.”

“Of course, Councillor Locke.”

*

From there, Locke began escorting me to various places: some afternoons to the library, sometimes to the enchanted garden between the Citadel and the Sanctum, and occasionally to an artifact storage room where he was working—those afternoons were pretty boring, but at least I didn’t have to stare at the ceiling above my bed.

Another week passed before we finally went to a study chamber, but even then, he only had me practice the simplest spells, like conjuring a light sphere, hovering some light objects or summoning the faintest breeze. I told him this was stupid and that I could summon a windstorm, and I tried to prove it by momentarily losing consciousness in the middle of the spell. He immediately steered me back to my room, insisting I rest for another week. He explained that I needed to get a feel for the effects of the new talisman and that I shouldn’t strain myself under any circumstances.

I didn’t really notice when the winter solstice had passed. There was a grand feast in the Sanctum, and Locke even allowed me to attend, but I ended up sleeping through it; and the late-night celebrations in the city were something I only heard about from Sol’s accounts. They sounded exciting and beautiful (the Council had gone all out to ensure the entire city enjoyed themselves—Sol and I speculated whether they were trying to make people forget the recent Dusk attack), but honestly, I wasn’t in the mood for celebrating anyway.

Over time, Locke allowed me to leave my room on my own. I could attend meals, go to my classes. I conjured a whirlwind in one of the study chambers just to prove to him that I could (he wasn’t pleased). Instead of early morning training sessions, he had me practice simple balance and strength exercises on an indoor training ground in the afternoons.

“Keep your eyes on one point,” he said. “You don’t need to move your head for this exercise.”

“But I can do the one where you have to move your head too,” I replied defiantly.

“We will practice this first. Go on.”

With an angry sigh, I got into the correct position, arranging my arms at awkward angles and lifting one leg. It wouldn’t have been difficult if I weren’t busy glaring daggers at Locke; but as it was, I quickly lost my balance and stumbled.

“That’s all right,” Locke said. “We will try again tomorrow.”

“But I can–”

“Tomorrow. Don’t push yourself any further today.”

*

You need to get used to how the new talisman works , Locke kept saying, Locke kept saying, but I noticed he never really explained how I was supposed to do that. Of course not—he’d never had to walk around with a powerful magical object around his neck to avoid being a walking disaster. How would he know what it felt like?

(Well, I had told him:

“It sucks.”

“It’s necessary to keep you safe,” he had said.

“You mean to keep the Sanctum safe from me, right?”

“Your safety is equally important.”

“Sure, obviously.”)

I’d worn the previous talisman day and night, without a second thought. I’d felt its subtle hum correspond with the rhythm of my magic, like a background noise I could easily ignore. Most of the time I didn’t even notice it was there. 

This one fought me every step of the way. It was small and lightweight, but I still could feel it pressing into my chest, holding me. Every time I cast a spell, I could feel the talisman pushing back, dulling the edges of my magic, making it harder to connect. The magic that had always been there around me—comfortable and familiar—now felt strange and distant, its usually pleasant hum now dissonant.

How was I supposed to learn anything if every move I made felt muffled?

*

Locke had me practicing opening and closing spells. I debated how insulting that was under the circumstances but decided to say nothing. Besides, I was doing fine—considering the talisman suppressed my power so much that even something like a simple unlocking spell felt like a struggle.

“It’s exhausting,” I muttered after unlocking and locking the same padlock at least a dozen times.

“Would you like to take a break?”

“No. I’m just saying it’s exhausting.”

“William, if you feel like you need to rest–”

I clenched my teeth and quickly muttered the spell to lock the padlock again. I would have liked to lock every door in the Sanctum—no, in the city—no, in the entire kingdom, but the more magic I put into the spell, the more the talisman suppressed my attempts.

“Do you know what’s the most frustrating thing?” I asked.

“What?”

“That you were right all along.”

Locke tilted his head, but I didn’t see the smugness on his face I’d expected.

“About what?” he asked.

“Everything? All this fucking discipline. All this fucking control. You were absolutely right—"

“I think it’s time for you to rest a bit.”

If I heard the word ‘rest’ one more time, I was going to throw myself out of the window—or throw Locke out. Anyway, I stood up, letting my chair crash to the floor behind me with a loud bang, and stormed out of the chamber before he could start rambling again about ‘taking things slow,’ or ‘deliberation,’ or ‘caution,’ or ‘rest .’

*

I became increasingly certain that as long as the talisman was on me, I would never be able to learn to control my power. After all, it hadn’t worked so far, despite Locke’s every effort. Since I’d started wearing the talismans, I couldn’t tell if I’d made any progress at all. How could I learn to control something that wasn’t even there, something that was suppressed?

This was the first night I snuck out to the empty training hall. It was several floors and many corridors away from both my bedroom and Locke’s office. I had stumbled upon it during one of my earlier evening wanderings, down a forgotten hallway that felt even more abandoned than the rest of the Sanctum. The chamber was spacious, with bare stone walls built from large bricks and almost no furniture.

Technically, it wasn’t ‘sneaking out’ since nothing (not even Locke) had expressly forbidden me from taking late-night walks through the Sanctum. But it definitely felt like I was doing something forbidden as I pulled my cloak tight around me and crept through the dark building, pausing to listen at every corner.

At first, I was anxious, my hands almost trembling as I took the talisman off, equally afraid that Locke would suddenly burst in and that my magic would spiral out of control, causing an accident or, say, burning the Sanctum or something like the entire city to the ground. I tried the smallest, weakest spells with the utmost caution (I even used protective charms. Honestly, Locke might have been proud of me for being so careful).

I practiced until dawn. I chose spells that weren’t too powerful but required precise control or needed to be executed with the right strength for a specific effect. I experimented with simple charms, spellweaving, and even a few basic sigils. Not everything went perfectly, but no one would ever know why the windowsill in that long-abandoned chamber was cracked. And the Sanctum didn’t burn down, so I considered the night a success.

*

The next day, I woke up so late that I decided not to bother going to Councillor Ginar’s healing arts class. I stayed in bed until lunch, and in the afternoon, I dragged myself to meditate with Locke for an hour. He probably noticed that I dozed off at some point, but he didn’t mention it.

I skipped dinner that evening to have more time for practice. This time, I was better prepared, swiping two dozen candles from a study chamber—perfect tools for practising precision in magical control. When Locke had me practise this, I hated it. Now, I was practically trembling with excitement as I pulled the cord of the talisman from my neck, eager to train with my true power—the only method that seemed to make any sense.

*

Locke stood by the doorway to the study chamber, arms crossed. His eyes flicked to me as I shuffled in, nearly an hour late.

“You decided to show up,” he said evenly. There was no edge to his tone, no irritation, just… mild acknowledgment.

“I overslept,” I mumbled, keeping my gaze on the floor.

“You have been oversleeping a lot lately.” He tilted his head, studying me. “Is everything all right?”

“Fine,” I replied.

He nodded slowly, stepping aside to let me pass. “Let’s just start, then.”

*

“Are you sure we are allowed to be here?” Sol asked as we crawled through a narrow passage onto one of the stone bridges of the Warden’s Walk, high between the towers of the Sanctum, from where we could see half the city and even the rolling forests stretching out behind it.

“Why wouldn’t we be?” I replied with a shrug, stopping next to Sol while he admired the view. The sun, if it weren’t obscured by the dense snow clouds, would have been setting in the distance around now. “Besides, no one ever comes here anyway.”

Sol hummed something under his breath and rubbed his hands together before shoving them into his pockets. The cold was biting, even though we were both bundled up in winter coats and cloaks. The clouds looked so heavy that I felt like the snow could start falling at any moment.

“It seems quiet, doesn’t it?” Sol asked softly, scanning the city streets. “I can’t tell if it’s because it’s cold and dark, or because people are afraid.”

“Staying home won’t protect you from the Dusk,” I muttered.

The Dusk had two more attacks, neither in the city, but both nearby. One of them had left four people dead. The Council was in complete turmoil; meeting followed meeting, wards were drawn all over the city and its surroundings, and if I heard correctly, they even consulted with the Royal Mage.

“Do you think the Council can do anything useful, if they still don’t know how, where, or why the Dusk appears?” I mused as we started walking over the bridge.

“Councillor Goldwin says the Council can defend strongly and effectively, but... he did mention that something is missing now—something they used to have during the war that allowed the Council to control the Dusk.”

“I’m not sure the Council was ever really efficient in controlling the Dusk… but what’s missing now?”

"I don't know. Goldwin isn't really involved in this; he's the Councillor of Etymology, after all. Doesn’t Councillor Locke tell you anything?"

“No,” I replied curtly, my bitterness perhaps more evident than I intended. Sol stopped and turned to me with a concerned look.

“Erm,” he began.

“What?” I grumbled.

“Councillor Locke... is he... is everything all right?”

“Of course.”

“Not that I’d ever think it of him, but… Will, if… if maybe anything...”

“What are you trying to get at?”

“If he’s... if he’s treating you badly...”

I jumped down a few steps ahead of Sol, then, turning my back to him, I leaned on the railing as if I were admiring the view (which, in the dimming light, was barely visible). Sol, like a concerned friend (something I had never had before), hurried to my side.

“I know Councillor Locke can be tough...”

“Oh,” I waved a dismissive hand.

“I know he can be quite… demanding?”

“Oh, no. These days, he leaves everything up to me,” I shrugged. “Do I want to skip the training? As I please. Am I tired of the sigils? I’ll do them another time. Would I rather sleep than practice alchemy? I’ll rest as much as I need to.”

Sol gave me a strange frown. “Is that... a problem? I mean, you need rest after everything that happened, don’t you?”

I took a deep breath and let it out quickly instead of answering.

Don’t you start too.

I shook my head and hurried on, heading toward the western side of the Sanctum, where, above the city, the distant, snow-covered mountains were still just visible through the descending night.

Honestly, it wasn’t so bad that Locke let me do whatever I wanted. After nights spent in secret practice, I had absolutely no desire to hold strengthening poses or float soft objects across the room “until I built up my strength,” as Locke liked to say. The dull ache from the phantom hound’s venom still lingered deep in my bones at times, but otherwise, I was fine. My magic would have been fine too, if that stupid talisman wasn’t suppressing it completely.

Sol and I just stood there, watching the distant mountains. I thought about what it was like when I used to live on the other side of them—about the western hills and the fast-flowing river that cut through the capital, and about how everything had been back when I didn’t even know I had magic.

The worst thought was that even if I could have chosen, I would still have chosen magic. Again and again. Always.

Sol didn’t speak, and neither did I, so we just stood there until the world was completely swallowed by darkness, and my ungloved hands were nearly frozen to the stone railing.

*

The more nights I spent in secret practice, the more tired and irritable I became. But the thrill I felt when I pulled the talisman from around my neck—sometimes I practically trembled as magic surged through me once more—was far more satisfying than the half-asleep, yawning hours I spent with Locke, as he tried to teach me how to use my power with the new talisman.

Locke let me be late. He let my attention wander, let me put barely any effort into trying. When my mood demanded it, he let me roll my eyes endlessly, and when I responded to his tenth gentle attempt with yet another sarcastic remark, he let me slam the door and stomp off to bed.

It was awful.

Actually, I learned a lot from Locke. More than once, I tried the same exercises at night, without the talisman, that he had me practice during the day. Any magician could manage a simple levitation charm, but keeping an object—especially a heavy one—floating perfectly still, without a wobble, required precise control and just the right amount of magic. Heating a liquid to the brink of boiling and stopping just before it bubbled demanded patience and finesse. Weaving a thread of magic through the eye of a needle without breaking it was a slow, difficult task.

During the day, as Locke drilled me on these exercises, my main focus was usually just staying awake, while daydreaming about how thrilling it would be to try them at night with my full power, free from the heavy restriction of the talisman.

*

I was almost an hour late for the morning alchemy practice. Locke was sitting at one of the tables in the study chamber, reading a long scroll of parchment, on top of which I could just make out the Council's burgundy seal before he rolled it up.

“We will practise a stain removal paste today,” he said, carefully setting the scroll aside. “Prepare the recipe and the ingredients.”

Wordlessly, I went to the cupboard and retrieved the proper book. I flipped through it leisurely, eventually reaching the requested recipe. Then, suppressing a big yawn, I walked over to the cupboards, taking my time sorting through the boxes, vials, and bottles.

Locke wore the same impassive expression when I slammed the ingredients down on the table as he had earlier.

I ignited the flame with such force that it flared up alongside the cauldron, and for a moment, Locke had to lean back from the heat.

Good. At least I can still manage this.

I opened the book to the correct page, almost tearing a corner as I turned it. Locke watched quietly. I dropped the brass scale onto the table and poured so much cedarwood peel into the plate that half of it ended up on the floor. Locke just watched. After measuring, I transferred it to the mortar, then enchanted the pestle to grind it into small pieces—half of it scattered across the table. By the time I poured it into the cauldron, there was barely any left.

Locke didn’t say a word.

I took a deep breath, gritting my teeth. “You’re not going to say anything?” I finally asked.

He looked up, ignoring the way my cauldron started to smoke. “About what?”

I tossed a spoon of charcoal into the potion. It stopped smoking, but released a really foul smell.

“I don’t know,” I shrugged, grabbing the book and raising it up to read the tiny letters of the ingredients. It didn’t even list the charcoal. I slammed the book back down on the table. “Something about me being an hour late? Or are you completely fine with that?”

He folded his hands in front of him. “Do you want me to say something about that?”

I glared at him. The cauldron between us gave a small explosion. My eyes flickered to it, but Locke didn’t even flinch. I wove a quick spell, emptying the cauldron. It didn’t even resemble the stain removal paste anyway.

“I… no. No. I just thought you would.”

“I know you are tired,” he said, and his voice was so annoyingly gentle that I immediately regretted emptying the cauldron, wishing I could pour the stinking, hot liquid over his head instead. “If you need more sleep—”

“Forget it,” I snapped. Sleep wasn’t what I needed. “Should I try again?” I gestured toward the cauldron.

He took a deep breath and scanned the vials scattered across the table, the spilled ingredients, and the crumpled pages of the book. "Tomorrow," he finally said.

“Wonderful,” I replied.

*

Locke’s artefact authentication class was a nightmare. After I realised that I was going to fail his exam no matter what, it seemed pointless to sit there every week for three hours listening to him detail the legal regulations on the categorization and protection of artefacts from two hundred years ago. Mirn answered all of Locke’s questions, so I had absolutely nothing to do. After a while, I stopped even pretending to stay awake.

On one of these occasions, I probably did fall asleep for real, because when I woke up, Locke was standing beside my desk, his hand on my shoulder, and Mirn was no longer in the room.

“What’s going on with you, William?” he asked.

“What?” I raised my head from my arm, rubbing my stiff neck in confusion.

“What’s going on with you?” he repeated.

“Oh, I just had to sit through the most boring lecture in the world,” I shrugged, trying to get up. His fingers tightened on my shoulder. I stayed seated.

“I can see something is not right,” he said. “Weeks are going by, and I’m not seeing any progress from you.”

“I’m just tired,” I muttered.

“You’ve been more and more tired lately,” he replied, his voice softening. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“William—”

“Nothing!” I snapped louder than I intended, pulling myself free from his grip and jumping to my feet.

“Are you having trouble sleeping?” He moved to stop me, but then hesitated. “Nightmares? If that's the problem, William, a healer—”

“I’m fine.”

“Do you even eat properly?”

“Of course.” No.

“William—”

“Nothing’s wrong," I said, shaking my head. I backed up toward the door. His gaze, which hadn’t left me, felt heavy. There was something deep... sadness? on his face that I couldn’t bear to look at any longer, so I kicked open the door and rushed out of the study hall.

*

For the next three days, I didn't attend any of my classes; neither the training sessions, the spell practice, nor the meditation. I skipped the morning common lessons with the other Councillors as well. I ate about once a day, and only when the Refectory was empty. I didn't talk to anyone. I slept in my room and practiced secretly in the abandoned training room. Sometimes, I even slept there.

On the fourth day, I was walking back from the Refectory, nibbling on a cinnamon roll, when Locke found me. (It had to be some kind of magic, how he always seemed to appear out of nowhere. If we were on speaking terms, I might ask him how he does it.)

“William,” he said, as I kept walking, pretending he wasn’t there. “Stop. We need to talk.”

I turned a corner without even looking at him.

He followed. “This can’t go on. Please, talk to me. The healers say the phantom hound’s venom has cleared from your system. Do you still have any pain?”

I swallowed a bite, then licked a bit of cinnamon sugar from my finger.

“William,” Locke repeated, as I started down a narrow staircase. “You need to attend your classes. I have tried to be lenient, I have tried to give you space and time to heal—”

I stopped dead. “Space and time?” I repeated incredulously.

Locke caught up with me, grabbing my shoulder and turning me around. He stood one step higher than I was, uncomfortably close, disturbingly tall.

I wanted to shout at him that I didn’t need space and time, but his troubled expression and concerned eyes stopped me. I turned around and hopped down the stairs, my movements far more carefree and relaxed than I felt.

His steps followed.

I popped the last piece of cinnamon roll into my mouth and leisurely started chewing.

“William,” he said again, his voice softer but insistent as he fell into step beside me. “You’re not listening.”

I just shrugged, swallowing the last bite. 

He let out a long breath. “I’m trying to help you.”

“You are not…” I shook my head. I shouldn’t open my mouth without thinking. “Nothing.”

“I can see that you are struggling,” he insisted.

I shrugged, refusing to look at him.

“You can’t keep doing this. This is not healthy. If you would rather talk to someone else…”

“I don’t want to talk to anyone.”

“I know you are struggling with this new talisman–”

“I’m not.”

“William…” He rubbed his temple tiredly as we turned down another hallway. “I know that everything is going slower than you would like right now. I know the talisman feels like it's holding you back in your studies. But this is the path to gaining proper control one day. The most important thing is that you regain your strength. But right now…” He sighed deeply, as if he didn’t want to continue this thought, “Right now, you are just getting more tired and scattered. What’s happening with you? I’m trying to be patient, but I can’t help you if you are keeping something from me.”

“Oh, you know I don’t have any secrets.” We arrived in front of my room.

“Will... you are acting like you have already given up.”

My hand was on the doorknob when I spun back around. “Given up?” I hissed. “Given up?”

Oh, shit, think before you speak.

 He didn’t seem fazed by my outburst. “Yes. You are not even trying–”

“Fuck you. Am I the one who’s given up on anything? Oh, shit! Me?"

“William—"

“You fucking hypocrite.”

“William–”

“If you would even care …”

I was unable to continue. I stepped into the room and slammed the door in his face.

*

Two more days passed. I stopped going down to the Refectory, so I wouldn’t run into anyone. I had gotten pretty good at controlling the temperature-altering spell, but with levitation, the book I lifted still trembled, no matter what I tried. It was driving me insane that I couldn’t get it right, no matter how many times I tried again and again and again… After the second day, the only reason I went back to my room to sleep was because one of the last three books I’d been using caught fire, one turned invisible and vanished, and the other flew out the window, never to be seen again.

I woke up to the sound of my bedroom door slamming, barely a few hours after I had collapsed into bed. If I’d had more energy, I might have jumped up, surprised and frightened. Now I just blinked, sullen and exhausted. Locke stepped up to my bed, yanked the blanket off me, and when I tried to pull it back, squinting from the sudden brightness of his light sphere, he casually tossed it to the foot of the bed.

“Enough of this nonsense,” he snapped as I blinked up at him, still half-asleep. 

He didn’t wait for me to respond. He marched to the wardrobe, rifling through my clothes, casting a glance around at the mess. “You are going to tidy up this room,” he said. “Today.”

“No?” I mumbled, though the protest came out far more uncertain than I intended. I sat up, propping myself up with my hands.

“Yes,” he snapped, wrenching out a training shirt from beneath a pile of crumpled clothes.

I sighed, leaned forward, and tried to pull my blanket back over my legs. “Just because you’re fanatical about—”

He tossed the clothes into my hands. “Training starts in fifteen minutes,” he said, turning sharply towards the door. “If you don’t show up, I’m going to cane you.”

And he marched out, slamming the door behind him.

Chapter 31: Low

Summary:

"I can’t let him see me being fragile."

Notes:

This is a short chapter… yet it still took me such a long time.
I completely rewrote this thing about five times.
Believe me, the first version was actually a proper conversation.

And then… this happened.

I didn’t go to training. I sat on my bed, consumed by torturous thoughts, staring at the door and spinning the talisman between my fingers. Half an hour later, Locke walked in again.

“Get up,” he said.

I turned my eyes to him slowly. “You were quite upset,” I mused, “when I entered your study without knocking.”

“Get up,” he repeated, ignoring me.

“I don’t feel like it,” I shrugged.

It was almost amusing how his face darkened. (Almost… if it wouldn't have been so terrifying.)

“Ten lashes, if you are willing to follow my orders now,” he hissed.

“Lately, you didn’t really seem to care if I just ignored your orders,” I shrugged again.

“Let’s make it twenty, shall we? Forty, if I hear another word of resistance.

“You wouldn’t…”

“I definitely would.”

“ No. ”

“Forty, then. Get out of bed and get dressed, unless you want me to drag you down the hallway in your nightwear. Trust me, I would be happy to do it.”

I glared at him, weighing my options. The hallways were so empty anyway. But this was definitely something different than the last few weeks… 

Finally, I got up, changed out of my nightgown into a wrinkled (but maybe clean) shirt, and swapped my pants for the thicker uniform ones. Locke stood in the doorframe with an indifferent expression. After I tied my boots and draped my cloak over my shoulders, he silently opened the door and gestured for me to go. His face was cold, unreadable. I sighed and obeyed.

 

He was serious about the caning. I tried excuses—I'm still not feeling well, I haven't regained my strength—but he easily ignored them.

I cried through it, not because it was painful (though it was damned painful), but because I kept wondering if this was the closest I’d ever get to him from now on; bending over his desk with my pants down, the air cold on my skin, painfully missing his touch as the cane sliced through my skin again and again. 

“We are done,” he said in the end. His voice was strangely empty. “Get dressed.”

I tried to wipe my tears away, but my cold hand probably just smeared them all over my face. Then I yanked up my pants, wincing as the fabric scraped against my skin.

Locke stepped behind his desk. I wiped my face on my sleeve. For a while, we just stood there facing each other, him still holding the cane in his hand, me on shaky legs, breathing in shallow, uneven gasps.

“Sit down,” he said, gesturing towards the chair.

I glanced at the straight-backed, hard chair. Just the thought of it brought fresh tears to my eyes.

“Sit,” he repeated, his tone sharper this time. The cane landed on the desk with a sharp thud.

“But…”

“Now.”

I performed an exaggerated and dramatic eye roll, then lowered myself gingerly onto the chair, hands gripping the edges, trying to hold my weight off the welts.

There was a very long and very uncomfortable silence. I could feel his gaze on me, but I refused to look up.

“I gave you every opportunity to avoid this,” he said finally.

I shrugged. The silence stretched, deep and long. My thighs and arms trembled from the effort of holding myself up, and with a sharp, painful sigh, I let my full weight sink into the chair. Then, swallowing, I tried to act unbothered as I stared at the cabinet in the corner (which predecessor I had blown up).

Locke’s gaze was thoughtful, calculating. The chair was agonizing. I glared at the carvings on the cabinet.

Maybe I wasn’t really good at staying silent. “Well?” I said. “You were the one who insisted I sit here, so maybe just say what you want so I can get out of here already?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I know that communication can be difficult and even frightening sometimes, but we are going to have this conversation now.”

“I’m not frightened of anything,” I shrugged, waving a hand dismissively. “Least of all you.” 

Oh what a lie.

Locke’s eyes narrowed. “Then stop hiding behind sarcasm and theatrics and talk to me. Tell me why you are avoiding me, tell me why you are skipping lessons. I can see that you are eating less and less. You are barely sleeping. Tell me what you have been going through these past weeks, shutting everyone out, ignoring everything I have done to help you.”

“Oh, sorry,” I scoffed, “I must have missed the part where caning me half to death counts as helping.”

His jaw tightened. “I’m not going to get into these arguments with you. I was being lenient. I was trying to ensure you have enough rest and opportunities to practice in a way that’s most comfortable for you–"

“Great,” I scoffed. If he’s expecting gratitude, he’s going to be waiting a while.

“However,” he continued, pointing one finger at me, “I will not accept you taking advantage of the trust I give you. If you want to share how you are feeling or what you are going through, I’m always here to listen. We can work together on solutions. But I won’t tolerate my apprentice behaving the way you do. You know why we are having this conversation.”

“Do I? Because you like to hear your own voice?”

He looked totally unamused. “Try again.”

“Did you enjoy hitting me?” I asked suddenly. “Was it satisfying?”

His gaze was quite a bit uncomfortable, too steady, too direct. My chest tightened, but I tried to feign a bit more nonchalance. His voice was bitter as he spoke, “I told you: I’m not here to have petty arguments with you. You are not going to bait me.”

“Oh, shit,” I smirked. “Guess I’ll just have to sit here and listen, then.” I tried for a dramatical slouch, but it was damned painful, and I struggled to keep my face straight. I tried to slide down so much that my bottom was off the chair, but it was absolutely unnatural and extremely uncomfortable. 

He leaned forward a bit, his voice quiet, but sharper this time. “You will sit up and listen, and you will answer me properly. You do not get to act like a spoiled child and then pretend the consequences were unfair.”

I did sit up, but forced my face to keep the smirk in place. “You are right,” I nodded. “The consequences were totally fair. You should probably cane me again. Really drive the lesson home.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, I thought he might yell. Instead, he closed his eyes briefly and exhaled, long and slow. When he opened them again, he just looked... exhausted.

“You know,” he said, shaking his head slightly, “right now I would really like to bend you back over that desk for another forty strokes.” His voice was clipped, biting. “Or I could let you storm out and carry on as you have been. But neither of those will solve anything.”

“Well then—”

“We are not here to argue.” His voice was cold, flat. “Are you capable of having a conversation like a civilised adult, or do you insist on being insufferable?”

I swallowed, looking away. “What if I insist?”

He sighed. “Actually…I don’t know.”

I glanced up again, biting my lip. His face was contemplative, his eyes narrowed, head tilted slightly.

I wanted to gloat – of course you don’t, you know nothing – but somehow the words didn’t come when I opened my mouth. 

“What do you mean you don’t know?” I asked instead.

“I don’t know,” he repeated. “What else should I do? I can’t punish you every time you are disrespectful, you would… die , probably. Theoretically, I could stand beside you from morning until night, ordering you to eat, sleep, and study, but I don’t think that would work well in the long run. My goal isn’t to make you suffer; it’s to help you learn and grow–”

“And to make sure I don’t blow up the Sanctum,” I cut in.

He shot me an irritated glance. “I was trying to be lenient. I thought you needed time. That you needed rest. I thought patience would help you heal.”

“Yeah, sure…” I can’t let him see me being fragile . “Because letting me skip lessons is exactly what a good master does.”

His eyes narrowed, but instead of anger, on his face I saw… thoughtfulness? Contemplation? I didn’t like it. Anger would be easier. 

“Maybe,” he said slowly, “I was wrong.”

“Obviously,” I agreed, twirling the amulet between my fingers, taking deep breaths through the sharp pain still lingering in my bottom.

Locke’s gaze never wavered as he leaned back in his chair, the cane still resting on the desk between us. The room seemed too still, too small. I swallowed, staying silent, looking down at the leg of his desk. I tried not to squirm, and scrunched up my face painfully when I did it anyway.

His face did some strange softening for a moment. “Stand up.”

I bit my lip. “It’s fine,” I shrugged.

Another weary shake of his head. “William, stand up.”

“But you just ordered me to sit!”

“And would you have sleepless nights if you didn’t follow my orders? Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not saying you don’t deserve this discomfort, but I would prefer if you could focus on the conversation. Stand up.”

Rolling my eyes, I stood up. He only made a quick motion, conjuring a soft cushion onto the chair, then gestured for me to sit back down. Grumbling, I obeyed. 

It was so much better. It’s infuriating how he’s always right about everything.

“All right.” He clasped his hands together. “I’m giving you one last chance to try and communicate with me properly. So, William— is there anything you think we should talk about?”

I swallowed, looking away.

That fucking talisman?

Me never being able to control my power?

That you hate me?

That I fuck everything up?

“No,” I said. “I don’t think so.”

He let out a slow sigh, resting his chin on one hand. “Are you sure?”

I hesitated just for a moment, then I quickly said, “Absolutely.”

“William–”

I rolled my eyes. “What do you want me to say? That I feel sooo guilty? That I just need a hug and everything will be fine? Spare me.”

He tilted his head to the side. “Do you need a hug?”

I scoffed, crossing my arms over my chest and turning away before he could see the heat in my face, not thinking about what we did in his other rooms— “What the fuck ?”

A smirk on his face, just for a second. Then it was gone.

His voice was gentler when he spoke next. “Do you feel guilty?”

I stared at the cabinet. “Why would I feel guilty?” I shrugged.

“You just said.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“William—”

“No.”

When I glanced up, he looked really, really tired. And a bit sad. I bit my lip, grabbing the talisman, absent-mindedly twisting the cord between two fingers.

Locke sighed, and sat up a bit straighter, intertwining his fingers on his desk. “All right. Then just a few more things to discuss. First of all, I want you to know that what you have been doing lately is neither healthy nor an effective way to cope with difficulties. From now on, I want you to attend all meals in the Refectory. If you miss one for any reason, you go down to eat something as soon as possible. Understood?"

“Sure,” I replied.

“I’m serious,” he said.

“Sure,” I said.

Locke watched me for a long moment, fingers tightening just slightly.“You are also going to start sleeping properly,” he continued, his voice measured. “No more wandering around after dark. If you need help falling asleep, the infirmary can give you something safe.”

“Sure.”

His knuckles pales. “I don’t want just a ‘sure,’ William. I need you to actually do it.”

“Oh, my apologies,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Yes, Councillor Locke. I will go to bed on time like a good little apprentice and recite my lessons by candlelight.”

Locke’s fingers clenched into a fist on the desk. His jaw was so tight I could hear his teeth grind.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You are infuriating.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not exactly—”

The chair scraped back violently as he stood.

I shut my mouth.

He took a slow breath, dragging his hands down his face. He shook his head, exhaling through his nose.

A pause.

“Enough.” His steps were slow as he rounded the desk, and his expression was calm but dangerous as he leant against it. “Why are you trying to provoke me?”

I swallowed, shifting my weight.

Locke spent a long time just standing there, motionless, watching me. I tried to stare back, tried not to fidget, but I wasn’t particularly successful. 

“William,” he said then, really slowly, grabbing a quill from his desk and twirling it between his fingers; “Just because I was more lenient, did you think I didn’t care ?"

“No. That’s stupid.”

“Hmm.” Even slower this time. “I see.” He heaved a big sigh, raising a hand to his chin thoughtfully. 

Silence.

I hated this silence. Silence meant I could hear my thoughts. Silence came with this sick, clawing feeling in my chest—

I wanted to argue; to scream in his face that no, he didn’t understand anything, he didn’t know anything; that nothing will ever get better, that the talisman was just a leash, that I took it off behind his back, that I was failing, failing, failing—

That the cushion was comfortable, but how much better would it be to feel the warmth of his touch—

Damn it.

“Oh, I get it,” I said, my own voice sounding hollow, far away. I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “This isn’t about me being okay, it’s about you needing to be in control of everything, isn’t it?”

Locke’s eyes flickered, but his expression didn’t change.

I leaned back in my chair, arms crossed, and smirked up at him. “You can’t stand it, can you? That I won’t just roll over and do what you say.”

A long pause.

Then, very quietly, Locke set down the quill.

I knew I’d gone too far, but I didn’t– Oh, shit, I did care. My chest was so tight I could barely breathe.

“Get out.”

It wasn’t a shout. It wasn’t even loud. Just cold and sharp and final.

For a second, I hesitated.

Then I forced out a scoff, shoved myself up from the chair, and left before he could see how badly I was shaking.

Chapter 32: Then the Bells Rang

Summary:

“Put the talisman back on.”

Notes:

Another short one, but I love uploading new chapters sooooo much

The first time I slept without the talisman, it happened by accident. Most of the time, I made sure to finish my secret practice in time to get back to bed so I could attend Locke’s training in the morning. But that day, I was so exhausted that even though I only meant to sit down and rest, I ended up falling asleep in the empty study chamber.

The dream—and Lysander within it—appeared the moment I closed my eyes. As if he had been waiting for me.

The vast underground hall was empty this time. The cages were gone, and so were the dead Remembrance Birds.

“I can’t touch this,” Lysander said quietly.

His hand hovered in front of my chest, where the talisman usually hung.

“But I’m not even wearing it,” I replied, glancing down at his wrinkled, ghostly white skin. 

Lysander studied me in silence for a while before finally speaking. Then he stepped aside, his billowing purple cloak revealing what stood at the centre of the vast hall—a long, ancient stone table, cracked and weathered by time.

“I wanted to show you this,” Lysander said.

A cold wind swept through the chamber.

A truly fine table, but a little old-fashioned, don’t you think?

I looked at Lysander. He wasn’t looking at me—his gaze was fixed on the table. His face was blank, but his eyes… his eyes looked haunted, as if he wasn’t just seeing a lifeless slab of stone, but something much, much worse.

“What happened here?” I asked.

“That cannot be spoken of,” he answered quietly.

I stared at the grey stone. As I stepped closer, I could make out the intricate patterns carved into its surface. I recognised a few runes, but most of the symbols looked far older, far darker than anything I had ever studied.

Thin grooves ran between the runes, and for a brief moment, I saw it—the magic, the darkness, the blood, trickling down—

Lysander once again stepped between me and the table, even though just a moment ago he hadn’t been there—just a moment ago, my knee had nearly collided with the ice-cold stone.

“Did you do this?” I asked.

“I did,” he replied.

“Tell me–”

“What happened here cannot be spoken of.”

“But–”

“It cannot. Magic.”

“There’s no magic that makes something unspeakable.”

“There was back then.”

For a while, neither of us spoke. I tried to peer past his shoulder towards the table, but the hall was once again swallowed by darkness. I could barely see anything—only Lysander’s pale blue, almost white eyes.

Then, I shifted in my sleep, nearly tumbling off the chair—and woke up.

For a few minutes, I just sat there in the darkness, staring blankly ahead.

Then, like a good apprentice, I fastened the talisman back around my neck and went to bed.

 

*

 

There were times when I didn’t see Locke for days. Sometimes he’d have Finnian pass on a message saying our morning training was cancelled, and then he’d send word again before our afternoon class and evening meditation. I kept telling myself it wasn’t because he hated me and didn’t want to see me. Everyone knew the Council was in constant meetings; there had been several Dusk attacks, and the Council was in utter turmoil. 

Still, I missed him–

—but I guess I was also glad we saw each other less: our training sessions and practices were pretty uncomfortable, with him being so cold and distant.

And it didn’t help that most of the time I didn’t even dare to look at him.

“You’ll be making candles,” he said during one evening's meditation. “The Rajkaan candles combine the science of potion brewing with spellweaving and ultimately allow for a special, deep meditative state.” He placed an old, massive book in front of me open at the recipe. The list of ingredients, written in incredibly small print, covered almost an entire page. “The process isn’t complicated, but it requires great attention and precision. For those who enjoy meticulous tasks, it's a meditative activity in itself.”

“Hmm,” I said, flipping through the book. The paper creaked dryly with the movement.

The task really wasn’t difficult: you prepare the wax with the right ingredients, weaving in spells for calm, for concentration, for contemplation, for stability; then, you keep the wax at the right temperature and begin dipping the wick, continuously weaving more and more incantations into the candles as they form.

If you did everything correctly, your first candles could be ready in just two weeks.

“Sounds fun,” I said.

“Get to work,” Locke said.

*

“Do you think it’s possible that someone just can’t learn to control their power?” I asked Sol one day when we were having a late dinner.

“I’m not sure,” he replied, cutting a neat bite of his roast beef. “But why wouldn’t you be able to?”

“I tried looking it up in the library, but most of the books are about how to improve when someone thinks their magic isn’t strong enough. They don’t really write about what happens if it’s too strong. So, I guess everyone learns to control it... which makes it even more pathetic that I can’t.”

Sol was carefully chewing. I just pushed some boiled potatoes around my plate, twirling the talisman between my fingers with my other hand (it had become my habit lately, or as Locke put it, a bad habit; “We don’t mess around with powerful magical objects,” he said disapprovingly).

“You can wear the talisman as long as you need to, can’t you?” Sol asked.

“Who wants to wear it for the rest of their life?” I muttered. “It sucks. Locke said it just takes time to get used to it, but it’s been weeks, and no matter what I do, it’s all rubbish. I have to strain myself even for the simplest spells.”

“Most magicians have to put effort into casting spells,” Sol said.

“Really?”

“Of course.”

“Odd,” I grumbled, forcing myself to put at least a tiny piece of potato into my mouth. 

 

*

 

I walked between towering shelves that stretched upward into a darkness that swallowed the ceiling. The books stored here were older than anything I’d ever seen—many barely held together, their spines crumbling and titles worn away to nothing.

A narrow passage led into a long corridor, lined with stone tablets steeped in magic, inscribed with ancient runes. As far as I could tell, they were related to some form of early elemental magic. Many of the tablets were broken or incomplete. One lay toppled across the floor, covered in a thick layer of dust as if it had fallen centuries ago.

I stepped forward slowly, the wooden floorboards creaking beneath my feet, carefully stepping over the fallen stone tablet. The corridor led to a small chamber, its bare stone walls rising around me. Massive shelves lined every wall, stacked with thousands upon thousands of bones —ribs and femurs and skulls etched with forbidden spells, the magic whispering into the darkness... I barely took notice as I continued forward to the back wall, where a small altar, built entirely of bones, stood between the shelves.

There was a skull in the middle of the altar. I brushed my fingers over its dusty cheekbone; slipping two fingers into the hollow of the left eye socket. When I withdrew my hand, the tip of my index and middle fingers were completely black.

My heart pounding, I pressed my fingers against a brick on the left side of the altar, then touched two on the right. Rising onto my toes, I tapped three above it, then a seventh brick again on the left.

I stepped back as the altar groaned and shrieked, shifting out of place, bones and stone rearranging themselves to reveal a pitch-black staircase leading down into the depths.

The steps were narrow and slippery. I descended slowly, my fingers searching for a grip on the smoothwal ls. There had still been some light at the altar, but here, the darkness was absolute.

At the bottom of the stairs, I turned left. A few steps forward, then another staircase. The edge of the first step was so worn and slick that I nearly lost my footing. One hundred and thirteen steps down. Then a long corridor... Though I was only feeling my way through the pitch black, I recognised the path now—the corridor where Lysander had led me before. I reached the enormous door, wove a few spells into the air, and it groaned open. I stepped over the threshold—

And found myself back in the library, between the towering shelves.

I walked the corridor lined with stone tablets, stepping over the one that had fallen. Through the room of bones. I touched the skull. One brick on the left, two on the right, three above, the seventh again on the left. Down the stairs. Left. Another staircase, one hundred and thirteen steps. Through the corridor, to the door—

Then back in the library, between the towering shelves.

There was no morning training, so I could sleep in quite a bit. Yet by the time I woke, I had walked the path forty-two times from the books to the vast underground chamber where Lysander was waiting for me. 

 

*

 

The silence of the chamber was broken only by the faint hum of magic. My left hand was already cramping, my fingers stiff from the sheer effort of weaving the spell with the precise movements required. Magic curled around my fingers, raw and untamed, flickering like a living thing.

I let out a slow breath, forcing my aching fingers to move in the correct rhythm, carefully shaping the magic in the air...

I let out a frustrated growl when the spell failed. Twelve candles hovered before me, and the goal was to ignite only every other one—but no matter how many times I tried, ten, twenty, thirty, forty times, the damned things all caught fire at once. By now, they were little more than stubs, wax pooling in brittle heaps on the floor.

I shook out my hands before lifting them once more. With a swift movement, I snuffed out the flames. Rolling my head in a slow circle, I tried to loosen the stiff muscles in my neck and shoulders. My eyes swept over the candles, willing them to obey my will. Lighting a candle was such a simple task—every magician could do it even as a child—yet here I was, useless and pathetic; with the talisman, I had to struggle to make the spell work, and without it, I couldn’t control the spell at all.

I had had enough.

I let the magic surge through me, crackling and resonating around my fingers—and the candles erupted, flames soaring to the ceiling, wrapping around the beams above—

Then, a voice, quiet and dangerous, cut through the stillness.

“William?”

Shit.

The flames flickered out, the candles falling to the ground with a dozen blunt thuds.

Locke’s voice was low, too calm, too measured.

I turned slowly. He stood in the doorway, shrouded in shadows. 

My hand flew to my neck, where the talisman should have been hanging. Locke’s gaze followed the movement, cold and dark. He didn’t look surprised.

A slow, terrible silence.

His eyes lifted back to mine.

I swallowed.

“I—” My voice cracked. “It’s not—”

“Do not insult me with feeble excuses.” His voice was like stone grinding against stone.

I shut my mouth.

A slow step forward. I barely stopped myself from stepping back.

His voice was flat. “Did this happen before?”

I bit my lip, thinking—

“ Don’t you dare to lie to me.” A low, hissing tone. A flicker of something in his expression—he knew. Of course he knew. He probably suspected something before, and now—

“Yes,” I said, looking down at the candles, now lying scattered on the floor. 

Another slow step. I hated how much smaller the room suddenly felt.

“How many times?” 

My stomach twisted. I forced myself to shrug. The candles were lying among the splattered drops of wax, burned black–

“ How many times , William?” 

“I don’t know,” I whispered. 

Something flickered across his expression. His gaze dipped to my hands. I curled my fingers into fists before he could see them trembling from the lingering magic.

Silence stretched between us, heavy as stone. Then, quietly, he said:

“Put the talisman back on.”

I didn’t move. I couldn't take my eyes off the candles. They were small, some barely had anything left. The ends of the wicks were charred. The wax was dry on the gnarled wooden floor.

Locke inhaled sharply. A muscle in his jaw twitched. “ Now .”

I bit my lip, shaking my head. “You don’t– you don’t understand.”

Another step. This time I couldn’t stay still, and moved, suddenly, closer to the candles. 

His voice was a bit less sure. “William–”

“No.” I fell to my knees, reaching for a candle. It was small and ordinary, round and white, not obeying my magic – “You don’t understand,” I repeated, the words blurring together. My voice was shaking. “I must– I must be able to do– to control–”

“Put the talisman back on.”

I felt my throat tighten. “I must—”

I let magic seep through my fingers. I didn’t even bother trying to weave it properly—I could just let it out, let the candles burn—I need to be able to this , fuck anything else but I need this —

The fire was around me, coming from the candles and from the magic itself, my heart racing, my skin tingling with the heat, the air crackling around me. And I tried to keep it under control, kneeling between the scattered candles, my fingers gripping one tightly, the wax already dripping down on my fingers—

Locke made an abrupt gesture, sharp and final.

The fire was gone. 

“No–”

“Hush.” He was crouching next to me, slipping the talisman back on my neck. I didn’t even realise when he picked it up. 

“You don’t understand,” I repeated in a small voice.

He wiped my tear-streaked face. “I don’t,” he said, then sighed, shifting to be in front of me, in the middle of the mess of the almost completely burned candles and all the melted wax. “Could you explain?”

“No.”

Heavy, painful silence.

“William…”

“You should lock me up,” I mumbled. The white wax drew patterns around us on the wooden floor. I saw burn marks. 

Locke made an indistinct sound.

“I should,” he agreed. 

“Forever,” I added bitterly. 

He was silent for a while. I didn't dare to move. “Maybe not,” he finally said. His voice sounded annoyingly gentle.

My chest trembled as I tried to breathe. I didn’t dare look up. Locke was crouching in front of me, motionless.

I can’t do this damn spell. Locke knows I’m practicing without the talisman. I can’t do it—

Locke hates me.

I can’t do it—

What will Locke do to me?

I can’t do it— The fire—

Can Locke get rid of me if he wants to?

I can’t control it— The fire—

Locke’s cool fingers touched my burning cheek.

I flinched.

“Shh,” he said, even though I hadn’t said a word.

Locke’s fingers remained on my cheek, cool against the heat of my skin. For a moment, the world seemed to slow down. I wanted to pull away. I don’t deserve his touch . 

But I stayed still, unable to move.

“Look at me.” His voice was a quiet command, his fingers unyielding on my chin.

I bit my lip, forcing my eyes to meet his. His expression was unreadable.

“I need to control this,” I whispered, my voice hoarse.

“Yes,” he nodded.

“No, you don’t understand…” I was getting sharper, faster. “I need to– You don’t understand–”

“I still don’t,” he agreed, and suddenly, I wanted to be anywhere else but under his heavy gaze. I moved to pull away, to stand up, but his hand was already on my wrist, strong and merciless, guiding me back into place. “But you are not getting away that easily.”

“I can’t…” 

“You will. Do you think I never failed?” he asked, his voice turning low, almost tender. “You think I didn’t make mistakes when I was learning?” 

I blinked, trying to comprehend the thought of Locke making mistakes. “You? No.”

His low laughter was the least fitting thing for the situation. “Of course I made mistakes,” he said. “I broke things. I hurt people. I nearly killed myself – more than once. Councillor Rowland could tell you stories about this… though I forbid you to ever ask him.”

I glanced up, and there was a pensieve, slightly melancholy smile on his face. 

“I can’t– I don’t–” I shook my head, searching for words. “I don’t want to fail,” I said finally. 

“Well, you will,” he said matter-of-factly, and only shrugged a bit when I looked up at him, aghast and indignant. “Taking off the talisman is the most foolish, most irresponsible, most unacceptable thing I could have ever imagined. And repeatedly? At night? Behind my back? There will be serious consequences for this, William.”

“I’m sorry,” I muttered, not thinking it would help anything now.

“You will make mistakes,” he continued. “And you will correct them. I’m not going to allow you to destroy yourself, William.”

I stayed silent, glaring down at my knees.

Locke sighed–

Then the bells rang.

It was a deep, resonant, empty sound, one that made the window panes tremble, the chandelier’s crystal eyes quiver, and my bones too, deep and endless. Locke went rigid. His breath caught—sharp, quick. His hand clamped down on my wrist, fingers digging in hard.

A second toll. Deeper. Louder. The sound bled through the walls, the floors, the sky itself.

A third. The pressure in my chest buckled.

“What–”

“Get up.” Locke’s voice was sharp, his grip bruising. My knees wobbled as I struggled to stand.

A fourth clang, long and aching. The wooden floor creaked beneath my feet.

“What is this?” I asked, my voice swallowed by another trembling toll. 

Locke’s jaw clenched. He was already pulling me toward the door.

“The Chimes,” he said. “They signal danger.”

“I figured that much,” I shouted.

Rushing footsteps echoed in the corridor. Locke flung the door open. Finnian slowed to a halt in front of us ( how the hell does he always know where Locke is?).

“What happened?” Locke’s voice was measured, calm, yet louder than the next bone-chilling chime.

Finnian clutched his side with one hand. “The Dusk,” he panted. “In the Citadel…the Dusk.”

 

 

 

 

Chapter 33: Light

Summary:

"I rushed to the window. It was dark outside, the sun long gone, the sky heavy with clouds, and no moonlight… The garden, though, was never supposed to be dark. It usually hummed with light—soft light spheres floating over the paths, flowers glowing gently, the leaves of the trees shimmering with an ethereal glow. But now—nothing. Just darkness."

Locke swore. A quiet, vicious sound. Then he turned to me.

“Go to your room.”

The Chimes tolled again, deep and suffocating, shaking the walls. I could feel them reverberating through my ribs. 

I blinked. “What? No, I–”

Locke dismissed me with a single, sharply raised hand. He was already turning toward Finnian. “Finnian, escort him to his room. I don’t know how long it will take to resolve this situation, but please don’t leave the Sanctum until then.”

“Yes, Councillor,” nodded Finnian. 

I opened my mouth to protest. “But I can–”

Locke moved before I could react. His hand—cold, unyielding—caught my jaw and forced me to look up. I froze. “You can do as you are told and stay in your room .”

“But–”

His grip on my jaw tightened. His face was resolute, his eyes dark, glaring down at me. “No. You will not leave your room. You will not try to help. You will not so much as set a toe outside your threshold. I will not return to find you in the middle of another disaster of your own making. Am I clear?”

I swallowed.

“ Am. I. Clear. ”

The Chimes tolled again. A long, hollow sound.

I forced myself to nod.

Locke’s jaw tightened as he glanced down at me one last time, then, without another word, he turned on his heel and was already halfway down the corridor, his black coat sweeping behind him.

Finnian stood a little stiffly beside me. He cleared his throat.

“Um... shall we go?”

I shot him a sullen glance. I could find my way back to my room on my own . But it wasn’t Finnian’s fault that Locke thought I wasn’t a good enough magician to help the Council against the Dusk, so I just nodded and let him lead the way back to my room.

 

 

I paced back and forth. The tolling of the Hollow Chimes grew fainter and more distant until, at last, they fell completely silent.

There were no screams or shouts. The Sanctum hadn’t collapsed. My room was just as calm and quiet as ever.

I glanced out the window at the Citadel’s rooftop, its ornate columns and spires, but I saw nothing that signalled danger—or even anything out of the ordinary.

I gazed at the vast enchanted garden between the Sanctum and the Citadel. Night had already fallen, but warm lights glowed along the pathways winding between the trees. Long shadows stretched across the walls. The trees stood bare and black, their frost-laced branches catching the glow of the light-spheres and the snow. Some plants still thrived despite the cold—strange, silver flowers bloomed in clusters along the winding paths, their petals glimmering. Ice had crept over the pond, broken only by glowing winter lilies pushing through the frost. It was quiet—but still alive, still magic . (Since I wasn't allowed to leave the Sanctum, I couldn't go out there either.)

I dropped onto my bed, kicking off my boots. The left one landed on a half-written essay I’d been working on for Councillor Ginar’s healing arts class. I couldn’t bring myself to care. I slumped back against the mattress, staring at the ceiling, wondering what could be happening in the Citadel… how many Dusk creatures they had to fight… where they could have come from… and why…

I drummed my fingers against my stomach, restless. The Chimes had stopped ringing at least ten minutes ago. Had they driven the Dusk back already? Were they still fighting? Had more appeared?

How could the Dusk get into the Citadel? It was warded, the whole city was warded…packed with the most powerful magicians alive…

I tried not to think about the Dusk appearing in the Lost Library, darker than complete blackness, their bodies made of shifting darkness, their gaze cold and penetrating, swirling shadows, tendrils of darkness reaching out to me—

I wasn’t really successful at not thinking about it. 

Back then, the creatures touched me—icy fingers, soft, gentle–pulling me into memories—suffocating, working their way deep into my mind—

The air in my room was cold, and for a moment it felt like I was there again, surrounded by the Dusk creatures.

I sat up sharply. 

What was happening in the Citadel? How many were fighting? How many were hurt? Was Locke—

No. No, Locke was fine. 

But it was so cold–

I rushed to the window. It was dark outside, the sun long gone, the sky heavy with clouds, and no moonlight… The garden, though, was never supposed to be dark. It usually hummed with light—soft spheres floating over the paths, flowers glowing gently, the leaves of the trees shimmering with an ethereal glow. But now—nothing. Just darkness.

Shadows moved between the leaves. The winding paths were swallowed by darkness, and under the dark sky, the walls were dark as well, the lights burning in a few windows seemingly dimmed. Dark, blurred, shifting shadows roamed beneath the trees...

The lake’s icy water was barely visible beneath the silver-leaved canopies, but I saw clearly when the Dusk Knight emerged on the shore—sharp and black, holding a sword with a gleaming obsidian blade that reached the ground.

I stepped back in alarm. My room was bright—the furniture, the clothes strewn across the floor, and my pale face all reflected dully in the windowpane. Even through them, it felt as though the Dusk Knight was staring straight at me.

I wanted to move away, to crawl into bed, to pull the blanket over my head…or crawl under the bed—

With a swift motion, I extinguished the floating light-sphere at the ceiling and stepped back to the window. The Knight was still looking at me. The other Dusk creatures had flooded the garden, creeping ever closer to the walls of the Sanctum...

Where was everyone else? Any moment now, the Councillors would come rushing out of the Citadel, wielding magic and light, driving back the Dusk and saving the garden...

But no one came. My heart pounded in my throat. The darkness swallowed everything, the shadows shifted, and as I watched the writhing figures below, they seemed to whisper—sharp, rasping, hollow sounds blending with the rustling leaves of the trees...

No one came. 

From the undergrowth, the barely human, ever-shifting and reforming creatures of the Dusk crawled up the walls of the Sanctum.

The Knight stood by the lake. The wind stirred his cloak woven from darkness. He was far away, yet I could almost see the venom dripping from the tip of his sword and hear the snow hiss as it melted beneath the falling drops. The plants withered around him.

No one was coming. 

Shit .

Locke specifically told me not to step outside the threshold. Not even a toe over the line; something like that.

But he didn’t say anything about not leaping from a third-floor window into a garden full of Dusk creatures.

An icy chill hit me as I opened the window, much colder than it should have been—colder than the winter or the snow could explain.

I wasn’t wearing any shoes or a coat.

I had already jumped by the time I tore the talisman off my neck.

It wasn’t until I hit the ground that I realized I didn’t know a single spell against the Dusk. I managed to slow my fall with a wave of magic, but it didn’t protect me against the sharp, snowy and thorny branches of the shrub I landed in.

For a moment, I was still.

I hadn’t thought this through.

Slowly, I turned around. The Dusk Knight was standing just a few steps away from me, his sword leaving a red trail in the snow. There were no footprints from his steps. His form seemed to melt into the shadows, as though he wasn't quite there, an extension of the darkness itself. 

He raised his hand, his long, twisted fingers reaching toward me. The voice that followed was a low, rasping hiss, like dry leaves scraping over cold stone, a sound that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, pulling at the edges of my mind.

“ Do not resist ,” he said, the words stretching like a slow, painful drag, as though weaving into the fabric of my very thoughts–

–resist what?

For a moment, I couldn’t move.

The Dusk can’t even speak.

I stared at him. I saw the approaching shadows, tendrils reaching towards me, fingers that were already brushing against the sleeve of my shirt.

I couldn’t breathe. 

Shouts. From the corner of my eye, I saw people emerging at the far end of the garden, curses flying, magic weaving into the air.

A familiar voice, loud and sharp, but so far away… my name. Locke .

I flinched. 

The next moment, my gaze met the Dusk Knight’s icy, endless, black stare; all the while the Dusk creatures’ freezing tendrils curled around my limbs—everything in my mind went dark—

I remembered the dreams. The dreams in which Dusk followed me to the battlefields, in which I led the darkness and defeated everything and everyone, in which I stood at the head of an army of thousands and thousands of Dusk Knights—

I can control them.

—then I unleashed my magic, and it came out as flash of light, bright and white and radiant, so blinding that I had to squeeze my eyes shut with both hands to bear the pain—

—light slashed across the garden, voices shouted, and the Dusk screamed—sharp, unearthly, high-pitched—

—a sharp pain pierced my head, as if it had been sliced open with a sword made of light, and I shouted too as I fell to my knees—

Then I collapsed to the ground, feeling the thorns prick my skin for just a second before I lost consciousness.

 

Footsteps. Rustling leaves. The murmur of a stream.

An unfamiliar voice. “Unconscious?”

“Seems like it.” Fingers brushed against my forehead, then my neck, checking my pulse. Locke. His touch was gentle, but firm. Impersonal. 

Another voice, edged with disbelief. “What even was that?”

“I’ve never seen a spell like it.” A female voice. Rustling of clothes.

“I don’t think it was a spell at all.” Locke. 

A low whistle. “The creatures just—dissolved. The Knight, too. It shouldn’t have been possible.”

“Whatever it was, I’ve never seen anything work this well against the Dusk…” A new voice, youngish, amazed. 

A grunt next to me. Whatever happened, Locke wasn’t impressed. 

More approaching footsteps. The undergrowth whispered as it was disturbed.

Then Rowland’s deep, gruff voice: “Your apprentice? Isn’t he under orders not to leave the Sanctum?”

A pause. Locke’s hand rested on my shoulder. “He is,” he finally answered. His fingers tightened slightly.

I shifted, groaning. Everything was so cold. My limbs felt heavy. When I forced my eyes open, the sky was dark, but the light-spheres were lit now all around the garden. 

I pushed myself up onto my elbows. “I—”

“ Be quiet .”

Locke stood, his presence looming above me like a shadow. “Get the guards,” he ordered.

Murmurs. A few clipped orders. Then a woman’s deep voice: “Isn’t he injured?”

“He’s alive,” Locke snapped. “And he can walk.”

Rough hands gripped my arms, dragging me to my feet. My legs nearly gave out, but the guards didn’t let me fall.

Locke turned away, already striding toward the Citadel. “Take him to the dungeons.”

 

 

“People tell stories about you. How you appeared, flying down from the window, into the heart of chaos and darkness, and how you drove off more Dusk creatures than anyone has ever seen in centuries—all by yourself.”

I bit my lip. I was sitting on the floor, my back pressed against the cold wall of the cell; the guards had escorted me here from the garden. Locke stood on the other side of the tiny cell, leaning against the closed door, his arms tightly crossed over his chest. We were in the ancient cells of the Sanctum; this one was larger than the one in which Locke had once locked me up but smaller than the one where I had spent a few days in the Citadel. Apparently, the Citadel had not yet been deemed secure enough to imprison heroic apprentices.

“But I couldn’t care less how much of a hero they think you are,” Locke said. “What you did was the most foolish, reckless, and utterly meaningless stupidity in the world.”

“The Dusk was almost in the Sanctum–”

“The Dusk never would have gotten into the Sanctum.”

“You thought the same about the Citadel, didn’t you?" My heart pounded in my throat, and my hands gripped my pulled-up knees tightly, but I lifted my chin defiantly. “And about the whole city. And about how the Council controls the Dusk anyway, right?”

Locke pressed his lips into a thin line, then let out a deep sigh and shook his head. “The Sanctum is one of the oldest magical structures in the world. It is protected by magic that is millennia older than the Dusk. They never would have gotten in.”

“You couldn’t know that for sure.”

“I do know.”

“But–”

“Didn’t I tell you to stay in your room?”

I shrugged. “You told me not to put my feet past the threshold, and well, technically, I–”

His left palm slammed hard against the door behind him. “Didn’t I tell you to stay in your room ?”

I averted my eyes. 

“Didn’t I?” he repeated.

I had to swallow before I could speak. “You might have.”

He exhaled sharply. I looked away. When he spoke, his voice was low and measured. “I might have,” he repeated in disbelief.

I could feel the storm gathering in the small cell.

“Let’s go over this again, shall we?” His voice was almost calm now. “I told you to stay in your room. You—” He gestured vaguely at me, “decided to throw yourself out a window instead. Was I unclear? Did I stutter? Do you have some kind of hearing problem?”

I scowled, shifting against the cold wall. “It’s not like I–”

“You weren’t wearing shoes.”

“But I–”

“You weren’t wearing a coat.”

“Yeah, well, because when you’re facing a hundred Dusk creatures, the most important thing is, of course, whether you’re dressed appropriately for the–”

Weather . Seeing Locke’s face I bit off the last word. 

“You weren’t armed. You weren’t prepared. You weren’t thinking.”

“You don’t know what–”

He cut into my words. “Do you know a single spell against the Dusk?”

“Well, maybe not, but I was thinking!”

“Were you?” He let out a bitter laugh, pushing off the door and pacing a short, sharp line in front of me. “You were thinking when you landed in the middle of a battlefield? Thinking when you ripped off your talisman—again? Thinking when you faced down a Dusk Knight alone?” He whirled back toward me, eyes burning. “Tell me, William. What exactly was the plan?”

I bit my lip. Looked away.

Locke’s breathing was ragged. “Do you have any idea what could have happened if the Dusk got to you?”

I stayed silent. 

His voice was barely above a whisper. “Do you know how terrible it feels when the Dusk crawls into your mind? How it twists through your memories? This is not a quick and painless death, William. Can you even imagine it?”

I swallowed. 

“Well?” he prompted.

“Yes,” I murmured. 

“I don’t think so,” he scoffed.

“Yes,” I repeated. “I… I have.”

His eyes narrowed. Then he went completely, absolutely still. “ What? ”

“In the Lost Library,” I said slowly, not daring to raise my gaze from the dusty stone floor. “The Dusk appeared in the Lost Library when I was there. It was– There wasn’t magic there, I couldn’t do anything.”

“But how–”

“The bird saved me. The Remembrance Bird.”

“Remembrance Birds don’t have the power to do that.”

“Well, this one did. She sang, and the Dusk went away.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Fine,” I snapped. “Then obviously, it never even happened. I mean, it was dark. I must have just imagined it.”

Locke remained silent for a long time. I stared at the floor in front of me, fiddling with my shoelace. (Locke had sent me a new pair of boots and a coat as well.)

“I believe you,” he said then. “Of course I do. However, this situation… this entire ordeal is… rather perplexing.”

“Glad you’ve realised,” I murmured.

He sighed, leaning back against the door. “What I mean,” he started, giving me a reproachful look, “is that I’m afraid there may be greater forces in motion here than we first thought.”

I gasped, sitting up straight. “Oh, wow. You mean there’s something strange happening? Something mysterious? Something deeply concerning?” I widened my eyes dramatically.

Locke closed his eyes, exhaling sharply. “Yes.”

“Incredible. What a revelation. You simply must alert the scholars at once—get their best pens, their finest parchment—”

“Stop it.”

“What?” I leaned back. “But we were having such a productive discussion.”

“No. You’re having fun.” He raised an eyebrow, clearly unamused. “This is important . I’m trying to be serious here. I’m really trying. Can we please—”

“A serious conversation? Oh, I thought we were just chit-chatting like—”

“ William . You are trying to change the subject.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You’ve been spending a lot of time stating the obvious lately.”

Locke sighed, rubbing his temple. “I—”

“William, you shouldn’t jump out of windows.” I mimicked his deep, disapproving tone. “William, don’t fight an entire army of Dusk alone.” I waved my hands. “William, you’re going to get arrested if you keep being insufferable.”

“I have never said that last one,” Locke muttered.

“Give it time.”

He turned toward the door. “I’m leaving.”

I would like to leave, too.

But all I said was, “What a mature way to deal with difficulties.”

But the door was already shutting behind him.

 

 

The cell was just as empty and dull the next day. The few guards I occasionally met didn’t say a word. I didn’t sleep much; the cot was hard and uncomfortable, and my mind was full of similarly hard and uncomfortable thoughts.

I was sitting cross-legged against the wall, pulling my coat tightly around myself when Locke appeared again.

Had I been expecting him to come? Had I been afraid that he would? Or that he wouldn’t?

I didn’t know.

Either way, when he pushed open the creaking door, I jumped to my feet.

His face was ( surprise! ) unreadable. 

He raised his hand, and with a flick of his wrist, conjured a small, round, ornate table. The curling golden legs tapped softly against the stone floor. Another flick of his hand, and two elegant, high-backed, cushioned chairs appeared beside it.

It was a good thing I was standing pressed against the wall because, in the cramped cell, there was hardly any space left. 

I stared at him in disbelief. On the table sat a pot of tea, steam rising lazily from the spout. Delicately, he lifted the pot and poured tea into the two ornate, overly decorative cups. Then he sat down.

“Sit,” he said. 

I blinked a few times. “Are you serious?”

“Sit,” he repeated.

I glanced around the cell, as if that would somehow make the ridiculousness of this situation make more sense. (It didn’t.)

He pointed at the chair. “Sit.”

“This is,” I said slowly, “the most bizarre thing I have ever seen.”

“All right. Now sit down, please.”

I glanced at the ridiculous table, at the fancy tea set, at the gently steaming tea in the ornate cups. 

Exhaling sharply—and maybe a bit dramatically—I sat.

“What’s next?” I folded my arms. “Are you going to read my tea leaves? Predict my impending doom?”

Locke calmly lifted his own cup.

“ No ,” he said. “ We are going to sit here, drink this tea, and finally have a conversation .”

 

Notes:

Reading a comment is always the best part of my week <3 <3 <3

Chapter 34: Tea Party

Summary:

"You don’t jump out of windows, you don’t face the Dusk alone, and you don’t charge headfirst into danger as if nothing else matters. Do you understand?”
“Not even ground-floor windows?”
“No.”

Notes:

Yay!
(My English knowledge is so weird sometimes. I had to google "yay.")

 

There's a phrase in this chapter (about Will's nighttime actions) that a Guest wrote in a comment. I thought a lot about whether it's highly unethical to use their phrase without getting feedback from them – I hope it's not terribly bad, because I really liked it, so in the end, I used it. (If you're here: I hope you don't mind, and thank you so much!)

I stared at my teacup. It had intricate golden details and a narrow, curling handle. The chairs, the table, the ornate cups—it all looked like it belonged in some grand sitting room, not in a damp, cramped cell.

Locke, completely unaffected by the sheer insanity of it, calmly lifted his cup.

I narrowed my eyes. “What’s in the tea?”

Locke, unfazed, leaned forward and placed my cup in front of me. “Chamomile, mint, and a hint of valerian root.”

I stared at the tea.

Locke took a slow sip of his own tea, setting his cup down with a quiet clink. “It has calming effects.”

I sniffed the tea suspiciously, then took a sip anyway. It was warm. Annoyingly pleasant, actually.

Locke leaned back slightly in his chair, his expression unreadable as always. “Now,” he said, in that infuriatingly measured tone of his. “Let us talk.”

I turned my eyes away. The table between us was quite small, the whole cell was small, and Locke felt quite close to me like this… “About what?”

“Where should we even begin? That you have been completely falling apart for weeks? That you have blatantly disregarded practically every single one of my instructions? That you are jumping out of upper-floor windows without shoes?”

I rolled my eyes. “So you’re mad about the shoes?”

Locke inhaled slowly. “I’m mad that you nearly got yourself killed.”

“I handled it,” I waved a hand dismissively. 

He set down his cup with a soft clink. “Do you realise how lucky you were?”

I hesitated, curling my fingers around the hot side of the cup.

Locke tilted his head slightly, his eyes sharp. “You do understand that, don’t you?”

Something in my chest twisted.

Of course I understand.

I looked away, fingers tightening around my cup. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

Locke’s voice dropped a fraction, dangerously quiet. “You were lucky.”

I let out a short, humourless laugh. “Well, luck is a kind of skill, isn’t it?”

His jaw tensed. “No, it is not.”

I took a slow sip of tea, mostly to keep my mouth occupied before I said something even worse.

Locke let the silence stretch, heavy and expectant. He was waiting for me to acknowledge it. To admit, out loud, that I had no control over what happened that night. That I had nearly died because I was reckless and stupid and—

I swallowed hard, staring into the swirling amber of my cup. 

“So let us make this very clear, shall we?” said Locke. “If I tell you to stay in your room, where you are safe, then you stay there. You don’t jump out of windows, you don’t face the Dusk alone, and you don’t charge headfirst into danger as if nothing else matters. Do you understand?”

“Not even ground-floor windows?”

“No.”

I bit my lip, glancing down at the table. 

“ Do you understand ?” Locke repeated.

“Yes,” I murmured. 

“Good.” Locke set his cup down, folded his hands neatly on the table, and fixed me with a heavy stare. “Let us talk about your little nocturnal adventures, then.”

I made a face. “How many things do you want to talk about?”

Locke's gaze didn’t waver. “As many as it takes, William.”

“It didn’t happen only at night.”

Locke blinked. Slowly. “Ah. Well. That makes it so much better.”

I shrugged, taking another sip of tea. My hands were slightly shaking. “Just saying. If you’re going to lecture me, at least get your facts straight.”

Locke didn’t look impressed. “Fine. Your repeated, deliberate, reckless decisions to remove your talisman. At various times of the day.”

I nodded. “Much better.”

Locke leaned back, taking a small sip of his own tea. “Now you are going to tell me why you thought it was a good idea to do what you did. What goal were you trying to achieve with this foolishness? Why did you think you could break my rules without consequences? Did you even consider the dangers you put not only yourself in, but the entire Sanctum, the entire magical community?”

I shifted uncomfortably. “What if I don’t want to talk about this?”

“Then I’m going to leave, and we will try again tomorrow.”

I raised an eyebrow. “How long do you plan to keep me here?”

“As long as it takes, William.”

I exhaled sharply, sinking lower in the chair. My knee bumped the leg of the table, making the tea set clink softly.

“I thought…” I looked away, planning to avoid his eyes for the rest of my life. “I felt… I wanted to…”

Locke didn’t move or speak. I kept my eyes fixed on the dull grey wall of the cell.

“I’ll never be able to control this magic,” I said quickly. “Not with that talisman on. How am I supposed to learn control if the magic I need to control isn’t even there? If it’s suppressed?”

Locke stayed silent for  a long time. I stared at the wall, my fingers fidgeting with the hem of my coat.

“The theory is,” Locke spoke softly, “that you build precise control and discipline while wearing the talisman. We start with that to ensure safety. Once you have mastered this, we try weaker talismans until you are eventually capable of controlling your magic on your own, even in your dreams. This is not an easy task, William. The talisman is simply a tool to assist in the learning process.”

“Yeah…” but I feel like I’ll never be able to learn that .

“You can only get used to the talisman if you wear it continuously. Didn’t you know that?”

I glanced up at him. His face was gentle, contemplating. “How should I have known that?”

“You need to learn to use your power with the talisman on. This is only possible if you wear it all the time. If you take it off, your magic will become disoriented. Over time, it will be even harder to cast spells, both when you are wearing it and when you are not.”

“Well, you’ve never said that,” I muttered.

“Didn’t I tell you not to take it off?” he countered.

“Well…” I trailed off. His gaze was firm, but not entirely unkind. 

“You haven’t taken it off since then,” he said quietly. “Despite the fact that I’m sure even you can’t cast any spells in this cell while you are wearing the talisman... you haven’t taken it off since you got here.”

“It’s my second day here,” I murmured, then glanced up from my tea. “But how do you know?”

Locke reached into his pocket and pulled out a small stone. It was triangular, made of the same material as the talisman, and had an eerie, almost otherworldly sheen to it.

He placed it on the table with deliberate care.

“I made this last night,” Locke said, his voice calm. “Take off the talisman.”

I eyed the stone with suspicion but shrugged. Reaching beneath my shirt, I pulled the talisman off my neck, setting it aside.

The small triangular stone reacted immediately—I couldn’t precisely define the magic emanating from it, but it was instant, strong, and unmistakable.

“From now on, I’ll know if you take it off,” he said. “Do not attempt to remove it again.”

I hesitated before slipping the talisman back around my neck. The strange magic from the stone faded slowly.

“Let me repeat myself,” Locke said grimly. “You are forbidden to take it off. You sleep in it, bathe in it, you wear it all day. No exceptions, no loopholes, no secret nighttime practices.”

“Why don’t you just find some permanent spell to glue it on me instead?” I grumbled.

Locke’s expression didn’t change, but there was a deep, measured calm in his eyes as he let out a long sigh. “Don’t think I haven’t considered it.” His gaze sharpened. “But I’m not willing to risk it. There may come a time when you need your full strength to survive, and you won’t be able to access it if the talisman is permanently bound to you.”

I fiddled with the talisman, now hanging outside of my shirt. 

“And don’t do that,” snapped Locke. “We don’t fiddle with strong magical objects.”

I lowered my hand slowly. 

“When I need my full strength to survive…” I murmured. "How do we decide what falls under that definition? For example, if I’m bored to death and–”

“No.”

“But–”

“No. Don’t even start, William.”

I swallowed a sip of tea, now getting slowly colder. 

It would have been so easy to just warm it up with a quick spell. If only I weren’t stuck in some stupid anti-magic cell.

“Sorry,” I murmured. 

Locke looked at me thoughtfully. I reached for the teacup and poured some more tea to occupy myself. Locke sighed. 

“Now that we’ve established the rules regarding your talisman," he said, “let us move on to something else.”

Of course, there are so many other fun topics we could talk about.

“I would like to know why you think you can blatantly ignore every single one of my rules.”

His gaze was heavy. I picked up my teacup, and, not knowing what else to react, I rolled my eyes. 

“Sorry,” I shrugged.

“What I need is not an apology,” he shook his head. “Especially not a half-hearted word thrown out casually.”

“What,” I scoffed, “should I beg for your forgiveness? Get on my knees and—?”

I froze, the cup in my hand, halfway to my mouth. Locke looked at me, completely still, his face entirely unreadable.

“Start behaving like an apprentice,” he said finally. “Fulfill your duties. Take the tasks I give you seriously. When I give you an order, follow it—exactly, without question, without defiance.”

No getting on my knees, then. 

“You have been acting like this whole apprenticeship is some sort of joke, like my rules don’t matter. Well, they do matter. I am your master , and I expect you to act accordingly.”

His words— no, more likely his tone made something flip deep in my stomach. 

This is not the time.

I looked away, my grip tightening around my teacup.

“You can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep breaking every order I give you. This isn’t some game where you get to pick and choose when to follow the rules. This is your training. Your life.”

“Mhm,” I said. 

“You have already been before the Council. You have already been punished once for leaving the Sanctum.”

I remembered when he caned me the first time—and what happened next—and I looked away, hoping he didn't notice my face flushing. 

This is not the time.

“You have felt the Aurora Device when the Dusk Knight’s blade cut you; yet you jump in front of another Knight carelessly. Wasn’t it painful enough?”

I bit my lip, still not looking at him.

It seemed he didn’t expect an answer anyway. 

“You think I do this because I want to control you?” Locke’s voice lowered.

“Well, kind of?” I glanced up. 

Just for a moment, barely a fleeting hint of a smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. “Yes.” Then it was gone, as quickly as if it had never been there. “But I do it because you need control. Your magic—your life—requires it. Do you think you can just throw every caution away and hope everything works out? You are not that lucky. You need to learn that discipline is not just a suggestion—it is a necessity.”

I took a big sip of my tea. I could feel the weight of his stare pressing down on me. It wasn’t pleasant.

“How many lessons have you missed?” he pressed. “How many times have you walked out in the middle of one, or ignored my assignments, or turned in half-finished work? Do you think that kind of carelessness will help you? Do you think it makes you clever?”

I set the cup down. “No, I–”

“You were reckless before, but it’s getting worse,” Locke continued, his voice low and sharp. “You aren’t taking care of yourself. You barely sleep. You don’t eat enough. You refuse to ask for help.”

“I’m fine…”

“No, you are not.”

I took a deep breath. I clenched my fists in my lap, under the table, willing myself to stay still, to keep my expression blank. 

Locke’s voice was cold as steel. “You act like a child throwing a tantrum.”

“I don’t–”

“You do. Is it easier to pretend that you don’t care? Is it easier to fail when you never tried in the first place?”

“I’m fucking–”

Locke didn’t stop. “You convinced yourself of this ridiculous idea that I don’t care about you. You decided, in that impossible mind of yours, that pushing me away first is better than waiting for me to leave.”

“Shut up.”

Locke let out an unimpressed breath. “ You do not speak to me like that.”

I rolled my eyes. “I–”

“You do not roll your eyes at me.” 

I stilled. 

“You do not talk back to me.”

“But–”

“You do not argue every time I open my mouth. And you do not—ever—tell me to shut up.” His voice was measured, deadly calm, but it carried a weight that made my stomach twist. “You are my apprentice. I won’t tolerate you acting like this.”

I spoke before I had the chance to think my words through: “Then fucking punish me.”

I froze. The entire cell froze.

What the hell did I just say?

Locke raised his cup and drank a sip of tea. He lowered his hand slowly, setting down the cup silently. He was looking at me completely still, his face fucking unreadable. 

What. The. Hell. Did. I. Just. Say.

When he spoke, his voice was low and unreadable. “Punish you,” he repeated.

“No,” I said. 

“You want me to punish you?”

“No, of course not,” I shook my head.

“I could have sworn I heard you say exactly that.”

“No. You misheard.”

He sighed, leaning a bit forward. “I did cane you, William.”

“Yeah,” I said slowly, looking away. My voice was really, really quiet. “That’s not the same.”

Locke raised an eyebrow. 

Silence.

I had a fleeting thought that Locke actually enjoyed these endlessly frustrating, drawn-out silences—

He let the silence stretch. He tilted his head, considering, then exhaled softly. “You know,” he said, voice quieter now, “having an apprentice is… harder than I expected.”

I risked a glance at him. 

“This is the first time I’m being a master,” Locke continued, gaze steady. “And it’s a challenge. Especially when my apprentice is a reckless, disobedient brat.”

With a bored sigh and an eye roll, I looked away. This again .

Then—

“And yet,” Locke added, “I find myself rather liking him.”

I blinked, my head snapping up to meet his eyes. 

The corner of his mouth quirked up—just barely. “Most of the time.”

I blinked again.

Opened, then closed my mouth.

What?

I swallowed, shifting slightly on my chair. “Well, that’s…” I let out a slow breath, my eyes flicking up to meet his. “That’s…unfortunate.”

He raised an eyebrow. 

“I mean for you,” I clarified, forcing a (rather half-hearted) smirk. “Considering I’m such a disobedient brat and all.”

Locke hummed. “That does make things complicated.”

I looked away, reaching for the teacup just to have something to do. “You should probably work on that.”

Locke’s voice was quiet. “On what?”

I lifted the cup. “Your taste.”

He let out a breath that might have been amusement, might have been exasperation. Maybe both. 

I was glaring at my teacup. “I didn’t mean it,” I said suddenly. 

“Mean what?”

“The things I said. In the infirmary. About…you know.”

“About how I used you?” His voice was flat.

I could feel my cheeks turning pink. “I didn’t mean it,” I repeated, not daring to look up. 

His voice was painfully gentle. “I know,” he said. “I recognised that you were recovering from the phantom hound’s venom and were under the effects of several strong medications. Also, I know that I didn’t visit you for days–”

“A week,” I interjected.

“A week,” he nodded solemnly. “I know you didn’t mean it. It still…hurt, though.”

I stared at the faintly rippling, golden surface of my tea, drumming my fingers against the rim of the cup.

This was the last way I had imagined this conversation.

Locke finally took pity on me and broke the long silence.

“You need to communicate,” he said. “You can’t keep going on like this. If you want something, you have to say it.”

I kept looking at my cup. 

Locke exhaled, slow and measured. “William.”

I swallowed. “I know.”

“You assume things. You assume what I’m thinking, what I feel, what I intend. You make decisions based on those assumptions.”

My fingers drummed against the teacup faster. “I don’t–”

“You have convinced yourself that you had to do everything alone,” Locke said, his voice like steel wrapped in silk. “You have convinced yourself that starving, not sleeping, and tearing your magic apart was the answer. You decided to break every rule I set for you, because you told yourself you already knew how this would end.”

I clenched my jaw. “That’s not—”

“You could have asked,” he cut me off. My grip on the teacup tightened. “You could have come to me. You could have told me you were struggling. But instead, you tore the talisman off and snuck off to practice magic you are nowhere near ready to handle.”

I took a sudden deep breath. “I’m not– That’s–” But I didn’t know what to say.

“Stop running from everything,” said Locke.

My cup hit the table with too much force, rattling loudly. A splash of tea spilled onto the ornate tabletop. “I’m not running,” I hissed. 

He didn’t get angry, just watched me thoughtfully. I struggled to breathe evenly and tried to hide my slightly trembling hands beneath the table.

“Very well,” Locke said suddenly. “Very well. I will punish you.”

I went still. “What?”

“I will punish you,” Locke repeated calmly.

“I mean…” A nervous laugh escaped me, releasing a flood of tension as I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. “I mean, what? Now? Here? Right this second?”

“No. Tomorrow. You will stay here for one more day.”

“What the hell…”

“And it won’t be pleasant.”

I opened my mouth, but before I could say something (like oh I’m terrified ), he added—

“And I will only do it if you ask me to.”

“What?”

“I will only do it if you ask.”

“You can be absolutely sure that I will never—”

His voice was hard and final. “Come here.”

“What?”

“Stand up and come here. Now.”

Slowly and sceptically, I stood up. It was just one short step to stand in front of him... he grabbed both my wrists and pulled me closer, turning slightly until I was standing between his knees.

His thumb brushed gently along the soft, sensitive skin on the inside of my wrist, and then his hands slid lower, holding my hand.

It was the most awkward situation in the world.

“Look at me,” he said quietly.

Biting my lip, I lifted my gaze to meet his.

“You will ask for it,” he said softly.

“But–”

“You will ask for it,” he repeated. “Otherwise, I won’t do it.”

“I know you want it too,” I scoffed. “I’m annoying. Wouldn’t it feel good if you could finally–” I lost my nerve mid-sentence. “You know…”

“If I could finally teach you how to behave?” He cocked an eyebrow. “If I were to finally bend you over my knee and remind you who’s in charge? Punish you the way you deserve? Make you squirm and maybe even beg?”

I swallowed, staring past his shoulder at the stone wall of the cell, unblinking.

What?

What did Locke say?

With such casual certainty, like it was something he’d thought about before—

He held my hands, so there was no chance for me to run away, to hide, to sink into the ground… 

“Stop it,” he said, and raised his hand to tug my lower lip from between my teeth.

I just stood there, frozen, my thoughts in chaos, caught between fear and– fuck, arousal–

Locke, as if he had done his job well, clapped his hands together.

The absence of his fingers left a cold impression on the back of my hand.

As I stepped backward, he conjured a plate of biscuits onto the table with a swift motion.

“Eat,” he said.

“I’m not hungry,” I responded instinctively.

“Eat,” he repeated.

Shrugging and a bit dazed, I took a biscuit. It was round and flat, the kind people eat with tea at those fancy afternoon tea parties. 

I chewed slowly – it was soft, and crumbled in my mouth sweetly. 

Locke leaned back on his chair. “I’m going to enjoy watching you wait. You are going to sit here, in this cold, empty cell, with nothing but the silence and your thoughts. Alone. For an entire day. I want you to think about what is coming. I want you to feel every second stretch on, wondering if I will really make you beg.” His voice dropped, lower, darker, and I could hear the edge of his satisfaction. “You will have no distractions, no escape. Just you, your thoughts, and the anticipation building in your gut.”

I swallowed – the half biscuit in my mouth long forgotten. 

Locke stood up, stepping to the door. His eyes seemed darker than usual. “Get some sleep. You will need your strength for tomorrow.”

He opened the heavy wooden door with a loud creak. 

“But–” 

I didn’t even know what I wanted to stay.

“I will not be kind,” said Locke, turning back. “You did annoy me.”

And he shut the door, leaving me alone with the remnants of the tea party.

Notes:

Thank you so much for being here <3

Chapter 35: Exactly What You Deserve

Summary:

“Would you please punish me?”

Notes:

I was so excited for this chapter *.*
Will might be getting more than he bargained for...

 

The silence in Locke’s study was suffocating. I was sitting in the usual chair across from his desk. My fingers drummed on my knee, and I shifted nervously, for what felt like the hundredth time. The only sound breaking the stillness was the soft rustling of the wind against the window.

Time dragged forward at a snail’s pace.

It had been about an hour since a grumpy guard had let me out of the cell and escorted me to my room. I washed up and changed into fresh clothes. I tried out a few small spells after three days without magic in the cell. I tried not to think about anything as I walked to Locke’s study.

Locke sat comfortably, leaning back with his legs crossed, his fingers interlaced over his stomach. His face was expressionless. His clothes were elegant and neat. When my gaze drifted to his dark, immaculate hair, I couldn’t stop myself from raising my hand, twirling a lock of my own hair around my finger. Quickly, I averted my eyes.

Locke asked how I was. I replied, “Fine.” Then he simply said that if I wanted something, I had to ask. And he could wait.

Unfortunately, I was certain Locke could wait longer than I could.

I stared at the leg of the table. The wall. The cabinet in the corner. The table leg again. The pattern on the dark blue rug.

Sighing, I tried once more to settle more comfortably in the chair. My fingers drummed on my thigh.

When I glanced at Locke, and he was still studying me with his thoughtful, somber gaze, I immediately looked away.

I fiddled with the sleeve of my shirt in my lap. Moved my neck around. I found a loose thread on my cuff. I stared at it for some time.

Locke kept silent.

Rolling my eyes, I sighed again and slouched lower in the chair.

“Sit up properly,” snapped Locke.

I looked up. 

“What, you are telling me how to sit now?”

“Yes. Sit up properly.”

I could feel his eyes on me, sharp and unrelenting. A familiar kind of tension curled in my stomach. I had to bite back the urge to roll my eyes again—but I was starting to get used to that constant urge. Resisting it wasn’t easy.

Locke raised an eyebrow.

I grabbed the edge of the chair with both hands and pushed myself up to sit straight again.

Locke gave a small nod.

And we returned to waiting.

Locke watched me thoughtfully while I did my best to avoid his gaze in every possible way.

With a sigh, I tapped my foot against the floor, crossed my arms over my chest, and stared at the white ceiling for a bit.

I kept twisting a strand of my hair.

Slowly, I slid down in my chair, trying to be subtle about it. This time, he didn’t call me out on it.

I counted the books on one of the shelves.

Damn it, I can’t take this anymore.

I cleared my throat.

“Um…Well, you know, actually… maybe actually I’m not totally stupid,” I said.

He raised an eyebrow. “I never thought you were.”

“So…I remember you said before that I can ask for help if I need it.”

He sat up straight, something like delight flickering across his face. “Yes,” he nodded.

“So now… maybe you can guess that I… I don’t really enjoy this right now.”

“I noticed,” he nodded again.

“But I don’t know how– I don’t know how to… do the thing you have asked.”

“How to ask me for punishment?”

Biting my lip, I nodded, willing my face not to flush so much. I wasn’t very successful.

“I’m proud of you for asking,” Locke continued. “This is exactly the point. We can communicate. You can ask for help.”

“It’s pretty stupid to ask for help with something like this,” I muttered.

He ignored me. “Well, all you have to do is open your mouth and say what you want.”

“I’m not exactly sure I want… ”

He ignored that, too. “There are multiple ways to phrase it. ‘Sir, I humbly ask you to spank my naughty bottom’ has a nice ring to it.” I felt my entire face burn. “But if that’s too hard, I’d settle for a simple ‘I would like you to punish me, please.’"

I squeezed my eyes shut. How did I even get into this situation? I shouldn’t have left the monastery that day. I’d still be peacefully helping in the kitchen and secretly practicing magic… (assuming the Dusk hadn’t attacked the place by now, that is).

I opened my mouth. “Would you—”

I leaned forward, pressing my face into my hands. Locke remained silent. I groaned, rubbing my eyes.

“Would you please punish me?” I blurted out.

Silence stretched between us. I glanced up suspiciously—what if he just said no? He had left me to suffer for hours (or at least it felt like hours), only to refuse now? What if—

“Yes,” Locke answered. “Come here.”

I took a deep breath, then slowly stood up.

Why were my steps so unsteady as I moved around his desk?

When I was close enough, he reached out, grabbed my wrist, and pulled me in until I was standing right next to his chair.

I took deep breaths. I could feel the heat of his body, his eyes sweeping over me from my head to my feet, hot and somewhat sensual, despite his face being so hard and unforgiving–

Locke didn’t waste time. He reached for my trousers, slapped my flailing hands away, and pulled them down to my knees, baring my ass.

He pulled me forward, guiding me over his lap with effortless precision. My stomach lurched.

“Wait—”

A firm hand on my back silenced me.

“I believe you asked for this,” Locke said smoothly. “So I expect you to take it properly.”

I gritted my teeth, my hands curling into fists against the fabric of his trousers. “I—”

The first smack landed, sharp and deliberate. I sucked in a breath.

“You are going to learn to listen .”

Another swat. Harder. I twitched.

“When I give an order, I expect it to be followed .”

Smack.

“I do not enjoy repeating myself, William.”

Smack. Smack.

I let out a sharp exhale through my nose. “Well, I don’t ask you to repeat–”

A particularly firm swat cut me off. “I wasn’t asking for commentary.”

I clenched my jaw. I could feel the texture of his black trousers against my naked skin.

Locke’s voice remained calm, measured. “Would you like to explain what, precisely, was going through your mind when you decided my instructions were optional?”

I twisted slightly, trying to look back at him. “What time are you talking about exactly?”

Another crisp slap. “Just in general.”

I bit my lip. “Maybe your instructions seemed stupid?”

Smack. “This is why you ignore them?” A series of quick but powerful spanks. “Because my orders seem stupid ?”

“Maybe you just phrase them ambiguously?”

Smack. Smack. Smack. Locke’s hand felt like a sharp slap of solid steel.

“I was—ow, all right!” I squirmed, heat blooming across my skin. “I know I should follow your orders, fine, you win—”

Locke’s hand rested, firm and unmoving, on the small of my back. “This is not about winning, William. This is about ensuring that next time you think before you act.”

He punctuated his words with another sharp swat.

I gritted my teeth, fingers curling into his trousers. “You don’t want me to think , you want me to blindly follow everything you say–”

A series of smacks in a very quick succession. I pressed my mouth together, but couldn’t properly suppress the high, keening sound I made.

“All right, all right, I get it—”

“Oh, I highly doubt that.”

Another smack. 

I was sure he could feel me being hard against his thighs.

Fuck.

I exhaled shakily. “I swear if you hit the same spot one more time—”

Locke did. Many times. 

“Would you like to test my patience further?” he asked, voice smooth as glass.

I hesitated. “…No.” 

Maybe I’m capable of making good choices.

“Good.”

And still, he did not stop.

I lowered my head and squeezed my eyes shut, trying not to move. Locke had one hand on my back, holding me in place on his knees while his other hand continued to pound my bottom.

The pain grew—his palm felt like it had set my skin on fire—and it became harder and harder to stay still and quiet. When my leg kicked out too far, Locke slapped me on my thigh. I clenched my muscles and tried to stay still, but the blow was followed by countless more at the base of my thigh. I couldn’t suppress a moan.

How the hell can his palm be so painful?

By the time Locke stopped, I was constantly moving, involuntarily trying to dodge the blows. I bit my lip hard, but it was getting harder and harder to stay quiet, and more than once small growls left my mouth.

Locke rested his hand on the hot skin of my bottom, then gripped my skin hard.

I grunted. My whole body felt hot and flushed, and my hair was falling into my eyes in messy curls. One of my palms was pressed against the ground for support, while the other gripped the fabric of his trousers. I lowered my head and tried to breathe a bit slower.

“Into the corner,” Locke said, tapping my sore skin.

For a moment, I couldn’t even comprehend what he said. “ What? ”

“Go stand in the corner,” he repeated, this time slapping hard on my left cheek.

I didn’t move.

“Now,” he said, and gave my right cheek a firm slap as well.

“But– what–”

Locke sighed deeply. “Alright,” he said.

His left hand pressed firmly on my back, while his right hand continued spanking me, rhythmically moving between the two sides, covering every part of my skin.

“No,” I complained.

He ignored me.

Locke was relentless, not even giving me a chance to catch my breath.  I gasped, trying to twist away from him, but he held me firm, every swat seemingly harder than the last.

“Do you understand now, William?” Locke's voice was low, steady, but his tone left no room for escape. “I told you to listen. To follow orders. But instead, you are only making this worse for yourself.”

I just groaned, trying to close my eyes, trying to block the pain out. It was just his fucking hand–

Locke stopped, so suddenly I almost fell forward. He let the silence stretch between us.

“When I say something, you obey,” he said slowly. “I do not tolerate disobedience.”

The only sound was my ragged breathing.

“Do you understand?” he asked quietly.

I nodded.

“Now, I told you to go to the corner.” His voice was calm but firm. “Get up. Now.”

He helped me to my feet. I avoided his eyes as he steadied me. 

“That one will do,” Locke said, pointing toward the corner on the far side of the office, near a window and a bookshelf.

I stood there, frozen, eyes narrowing at the space.

Locke glanced at me, his voice steady, “Was my order unclear?”

I stood tall and firm, shaking my head. “I’m not going to stand in a corner.”

His gaze never wavered. Cold. Unyielding. His expression didn’t change as his hand reached around me and his palm struck me once more, hard, right across my aching bottom.

“Pity,” he said quietly as I clung to his shoulder to keep my balance. He gently pushed me aside and reached for his desk.

There was a small sound of wood scraping against wood as he opened a drawer. He pulled out something —a small wooden handle with a long and narrow, thick piece of black leather—

Locke’s gaze didn’t leave mine as he held the strap steady. “I didn’t intend to use this on your bottom tonight,” he said, his voice low and controlled. “But if you insist on defying me…this is what happens when my orders are ignored.” He let the strap fall against his hand, the sound of the leather against the skin echoing softly in the room. “Lean over the desk.”

I swallowed. My ass was already on fire. I glanced toward the corner.

“Maybe I could–”

“On the desk, William.”

I glanced at him briefly, then, biting my lip, I turned to the table. When he caned me here, I was standing on the other side. Still, the wooden surface was the same, hard and cold against my hip as I leaned forward, resting my weight on my elbows. The air felt cold against my naked bottom, and I shivered as Locke run his fingers, gently, barely-touching, over my skin. 

“Such a lovely shade of red,” he said. “Maybe this would have caused bruising already.”

“Then there’s no need–”

He put a firm hand on my lower back. “Do I need to gag you?”

I kicked at his shin. He slapped my bottom with his hand. 

“No,” I grumbled.

“Then stay quiet.”

I swallowed hard, trying to stand my ground, but there was no way I could ignore the trepidation building inside me.

Locke’s hand settled on my back, pressing me down just enough to keep me steady.

I braced myself, knowing what was coming, but nothing could have prepared me for the intensity of the— waiting . I could hear him moving behind me, his clothes rustling. His hand was warm and firm on my lower back. My naked skin was tingling; the air felt too cold. I tried to take deep breaths, but my chest felt too tight.

I was still hard. 

I heard him take a deep breath, then the strap hit my ass square in the middle with a crack that echoed through the room. The pain was immediate; a sharp, biting sting spreading across my skin. My whole body jerked forward, my shoulders tensing, my hands shooting forward, fingers grasping the edge of the desk, and I let out a yelp, shocked and in pain.

“What the–”

Another lash landed before I could finish whatever I wanted to say. It was like it doubled the pain, the heat intensifying, hot and insistent, pulsing deep. My nails pressed into the hard wood of the desk. Locke’s hand pushed firmer on my lower back. 

I tried to keep my muscles tense, tried to stay still, tried to brace myself for the pain, tried to breathe deeply—in vain, considering the next blows hurt just as much as the previous ones, in fact, much, much more, as each lash blended into the last, building, layering, turning the sharp sting into something deeper, heavier.

I lost count, but we were probably about a dozen in when I decided I just couldn’t take it anymore. My body was trembling. I tried to push myself up, to get away, but Locke’s hand was there instantly, pressing me back down without any effort.

“Did I say you could move?” His voice was cold, calm, controlled. Then there was a subtle shift in his tone, just enough to make my stomach drop, “Try that again, and we start over.”

“This is–”

I didn’t get a chance to finish my sentence, because in the next instant, the strap lashed across my skin again, making me jump and gasp, my legs kicking out instinctively. 

“You are not in a position to speak,” Locke said, voice tight with control. He moved closer, and I could feel his presence, heavy and warm, against me. “Every time you open your mouth, you make it worse for yourself. Do you want to make it worse, William?”

My breath was shaking. My knees too. I swallowed hard, trying to steady my breath, but the pain was overwhelming. I shook my head frantically.

His hand was back, pressing down harder this time, right between my shoulder blades, forcing my chest into the table. His voice was razor sharp. “I didn’t think so. Now. Stay. Still.”

Another crack of the strap echoed, and I squeezed my eyes shut, unable to control the pained moans that followed.

Each strike seemed to linger, building upon the last, and I was struggling to keep still. My body twitched with each new lash, and I wondered what Locke might think, that it was but a little nothing and here I suffered–

The sharp sound of leather meeting skin echoed in the room, a steady rhythm that made my ears ring and my heart race.

I was no longer leaning on my elbows, but lying on the desk, my fingers turning white with how hard I was gripping the edge.

The rhythm of the strap against my skin continued, steady and unforgiving. I was barely conscious of the sound anymore, just the sensation—the deep throbbing in my ass, hot and searing, but also a dull ache in my legs, chest and arms–

Finally, the room fell into silence, the only sound the laboured rhythm of my breathing. 

Locke didn’t speak immediately. I pressed my warm forehead against the desk.

“Well, well,” Locke’s voice was almost amused. “Look at you now. I guess standing in the corner would have been so much harder, huh?”

I kept my face pressed into the desk, trying to keep my breath steady. 

Locke grabbed my ass and squeezed the tortured flesh hard. I yelped, trying to twist away, to reach back, to somehow avoid the pain, but he held me down with his other arm and batted my hand away. 

“I’m gonna die,” I muttered into the desk, my voice hoarse and strained.

“You will be fine,” said Locke, his tone almost dismissive. “Your skin is not broken. There are a few welts here, but they will heal.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, squirming, the sting still sharp, barely fading.

It was disturbing how Locke kept his palm on my ass. His thumb caressing gently, then his other fingers digging in, making me groan quietly.

Even through the dizzying pain, I couldn’t not notice where his fingers were, so very close to—

His voice was heavier when he spoke next. “Do you understand now what happens when you refuse to listen?”

I nodded into the crook of my elbow quickly. His touch was gentler now, delicate fingers running over my skin, painful but also making me tremble a bit. 

“Do you realise you could have avoided this?”

I nodded again, rising to my tiptoes as his fingers trailed down to the small curves at the top of my thighs. I let out a shaky breath.

“Good,” he said. His hands left my skin for a moment, then they were on my legs, yanking my trousers down. There was some magic in the air, and my boots disappeared from my feet. He pulled my trousers off, along with my socks, and soon I was completely naked from the waist down. “Now,” he said, “you are going to stay in that corner and think about everything you have put me through. Understood?”

I nodded, dazed, as he helped me to stand then grabbed my arm, guiding me to the corner. “You better remember this, because next time, I won’t be so lenient.”

“Lenient?” I repeated, bewildered, wanting to snap back, but finding my usual fire gone. I wondered how long my shirt was, and how much it covered from my red bottom. 

“Hush,” said Locke simply. I let out a resigned breath, leaning my head forward until it hit the wall. It felt good to rest for a moment, close my eyes, and block everything out—but Locke’s fingers dug into my hair, pulling me back in an instant. “None of that. You are not here to rest. Keep your back straight. I won’t have you slouching like that. That’s it. Put your hand on the back of your head.”

“But–”

Locke’s grip on my arm tightened slightly, forcing my hands into place. “You are not in a position to question me right now,” he said quietly, his voice steady, almost calm, though there was a certain sharpness to it that made me bite my lip. “You are going to stand there and think. No more arguing.”

I shut my mouth, glaring at the wall. 

 

This was the stupidest thing ever.

I heard Locke’s footsteps as he walked back to the desk. The chair scraped against the floor. Wood creaked. Papers rustled. Then silence, deep and oppressive, with nothing audible except my breathing in the tiny gap between the two walls. My nose was a few inches from the corner.

My ass hurt. There were other parts of my body hurting too, maybe still from the jump (or more likely the landing), or from the strange, draining magic I used against the Dusk, maybe from sleeping three nights in a tiny cell… maybe from tensing every single muscle in my body during the strapping.

My ass hurt so much. No matter how I shifted my weight, no matter how much I tried to distract myself, my skin still felt like it was on fire. It was hard to believe it wasn’t broken and bloody.

What was Locke doing? Was he even paying attention to me, or was he working, reading something? Something much more urgent, more important than me?

Why would I even want him to pay attention to me?

As if standing in a corner with a bare bottom wasn’t awkward enough without him staring at me.

I was wondering what would happen if someone walked in... do I know a spell that could make me disappear in an instant? Probably not. Definitely not with the talisman on. Maybe if I could manage to take it off and magically transport myself away from here in the split second it took for the door to open—well, then Locke would probably kill me.

But probably no one would be stupid enough to open Locke’s door without knocking.

Would Locke be this strict from now on? Every time I said something out of line? That would be…unfortunate…

But that’s exactly why I was standing here in this corner, wasn’t it? To think about what I’d done. To think about how I treated him for weeks, how I couldn’t listen, how I just brushed off every single one of his attempts to help.

The pain in my ass was fading now, still there, still awful, but not as sharp as before. 

Locke used a fucking leather strap to spank me. 

I rolled my eyes at the wall, interlocking my finger on the back of my head, shifting my weight. 

How long does he plan on keeping me here?

I closed my eyes, trying to think about something else, but it was hard to find a peaceful thought. Maybe my mind wasn’t a peaceful place.

I counted my breaths.

I listened to the faint hum of magic from the light spheres in the lanterns lining the walls.

Holding my fingers interlocked, I dug my thumb into the roots of my hair, slowly circling a curly lock.

I thought of Locke’s fingers as they gently stroked the sensitive skin marked by the strap–

My fingers twitched at the nape of my neck.

I cleared my throat. “Um… how long do I have to stay here?”

Silence. Then, “Quiet,” said Locke. 

“But–”

“I said quiet .”

I shut my mouth, but made a face at the wall. 

“And keep your elbows up,” added Locke. “Feet together.”

I gritted my teeth, stifling another protest, and forced my elbows to stay up, trying to ignore the discomfort.. 

I made sure to sigh loud enough for him to hear.

I glared at the wall.

The room was quiet.

Fuck Locke for always being right.

 

After an eternity passed, Locke finally spoke. “You can move. Come here.”

I carefully lowered my slightly trembling hands and slowly turned around. Locke sat behind his desk, fingers clasped in front of him, and gestured towards the chair across from him.

I shot him a grumpy glance before crossing the room and sitting down—only to immediately stand back up, the hard surface pressing against the tender spots still stinging on my skin.

“Sit,” said Locke.

“No,” I said. 

He’d made me sit in that chair after he caned me too. That was different—sharp, raw welts, precise lines across my skin. That pain lingered for hours. But at least I had my trousers on then…

Now there was a deep burn across my skin that sunk into the muscles underneath. Now it felt like my whole backside was one big, sore mass, a constant throb.

I didn’t want to sit down.

Locke raised an eyebrow. “What did you say?” 

I looked at his hard face, his relaxed posture, his crossed arms. 

The strap was still líing on the table.

I slowly sank back into the chair, barely able to stay still as the hard surface pressed against my sore skin. My body ached to shift, to squirm, to find some comfort, but I just kept my eyes on the desk, trying to keep my breath steady. 

Locke watched me, his face thoughtful as the silence stretched between us.

“This ends now,” he said. His voice was quiet, but there was nothing soft about it. 

“All right,” I nodded. Anything that lets me stand up from here faster.

Locke tilted his head. It was clear he didn’t find my answer solemn enough. 

“My orders are not jokes,” he continued, his eyes sharp, unwavering. “When I tell you to do something, I expect it to be done. Immediately. Not when you feel like it. Not when it’s convenient for you. If I say you stand in the corner, you stand. If I say you stay put, you stay put. If I say you do not remove the talisman, then you do not remove the damn talisman.”

I swallowed, my fingers reaching up to fiddle with the talisman. I nodded. 

Locke’s voice didn’t waver. “You will not take it off again. Ever. Not for any reason. I don’t care what your excuse is. Do you understand me?”

I nodded quickly. “Yes.”

“And put your hand down. We don’t play around with powerful magical items.”

“Sorry.” I lowered my hand.

His gaze flickered over me, measuring. “Good. Because I am done with this recklessness of yours. You are not invincible.”

There was no way to sit comfortably. I nodded again.

“You will take care of yourself,” he stated.

How long do you plan on making me sit here? I nodded again.

“You will eat. You will sleep. You will not push yourself to the point of collapse. If I so much as suspect that you are neglecting your own well-being again, you will regret it. I am not going to let you destroy yourself.”

Something in my chest tightened. 

“And when you need help,” he said, “you will ask for it.” Locke sat back in his chair, his posture still strict, still commanding. “I don’t care how stubborn you are. I don’t care how much you think you can handle on your own. The next time you ignore my warnings—” his tone darkened, steady and absolute, “—you can expect a punishment that will make this strapping seem like a stroll in the garden.”

I shivered. My ass hurt like hell.

I shrugged. “I’m not allowed to take walks in a garden,” I muttered. 

Locke stared at me. Just stared. Not a flicker of expression. 

Maybe, just maybe, I should have kept my mouth shut.

Locke leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the desk. “Would you like to repeat that?”

I considered my options. None of them were good.

“No,” I said carefully.

We were sitting in silence for at least a whole minute. 

And then, because I apparently lacked any sort of self-preservation, I cleared my throat and muttered, “You said something like you didn’t intend to use the strap on my… on my bottom today?”

Locke exhaled slowly, like he was weighing whether or not I was worth the effort. “That’s right.”

I hesitated. “Then where did you intend to use it?”

A beat of silence.

Then, matter-of-factly, Locke said, “Your hands.”

I blinked. My fingers curled slightly in my lap. “…Oh.”

I glanced at the strap still lying on the desk. At my hands. Then back up at Locke, who was watching me with cool patience.

“But,” I said slowly, carefully, “you didn’t. Why?”

“I felt like you learned your lesson already.” Locke raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you?”

I bit my lip. “You backed out.”

His expression didn’t change. But I could feel the shift in the air, the way something in the room tensed, sharp and immediate.

Locke reached for the strap.

My stomach dropped.

“Stand,” he said.

I opened my mouth—then shut it.

Too late.

Locke was next to me, grabbing my forearm and pulling me to my feet. His grip was unyielding as he yanked me into the centre of the room. 

“I didn’t mean…”

Locke turned my hand over, palm facing up, and tapped the strap against it once—light, almost thoughtful.

“You didn’t mean what, exactly?” His voice was deceptively calm.

I swallowed. My fingers twitched. “I—”

“You didn’t mean to open that mouth of yours and test me?” He shifted his grip, steady and sure. “You didn’t mean to imply that I lack the resolve to see a punishment through?”

I exhaled sharply, my stomach twisting. “That’s not—”

Locke didn’t give me the chance to finish. The strap cracked across my palm, a sharp, stinging bite that sent a jolt up my arm.

I sucked in a breath, hand clenching before I could stop it.

“Open,” he ordered.

Jaw tight, I forced my fingers to uncurl.

The strap snapped down again.

I bit back a curse, hissing through my teeth.

Locke’s voice was quiet, controlled. “You don’t get to mock me and walk away from it, Will.”

I glared at the floor, biting the inside of my cheek. My other hand curled into a fist at my side.

“Again,” he said.

I hesitated—just a second too long.

Locke’s free hand caught my wrist, his grip unrelenting. “Now.”

I exhaled hard through my nose, forced my hand open, and braced myself.

This was worse than getting strapped on the ass. I didn’t know why, and I didn’t have the time to think about it, because the strap landed again with a loud crack, and the pain was sudden, an unbearable sting that flared out in every direction.

I bit back a gasp, instinctively trying to pull my hand away, but Locke held me in place, his fingers like iron around my wrist.

“Keep still,” he ordered. His voice was steady, the same as his grip. He raised the strap.

Again and again. I gritted my teeth and tried to focus on my breath. I almost yanked my hand free from Locke’s fingers. The sting became a dull ache that spread, deep into my wrist, my forearm— my pride . 

Again and again and again.  

My skin felt raw. I looked at Locke, his steady face. Unhurried. Calm. Measured. In control . His gaze was steady, but there was a quiet intensity in it, like he was studying me, measuring me with every passing second. 

When I glanced back at my palm, I expected to see the remnants of my skin hanging off my bones in bloody shreds–

But my skin was dark red and swollen, but intact.

Again and again and again and again. 

Finally, he lowered the strap. I yanked my hand away, clutching it to my chest like it might somehow make the burning, searing pain in my palm go away. My fingers trembled, and I could feel the rawness of my skin, the heat radiating from it as if it was still on fire.

Locke’s eyes never left me. He didn’t show any sign of sympathy, no flicker of anything resembling leniency. His voice, when it came, was as cold and commanding as before.

“Raise your other hand.”

I froze. Didn’t move.

“Raise–”

“No.”

The word slipped out before I could stop it, and immediately, I felt the weight of the mistake hanging between us.

Locke’s expression didn’t change. He didn’t flinch, didn’t give me any hint of what he was thinking. The air seemed to freeze around us.

“You are going to get twelve hits,” he said, his voice still firm and calm, but there was a hard edge to it now, a warning in his tone. “Twelve, if you stop resisting. If you keep this up, you will get more. Do you understand?”

“Please–”

“Raise your hand.”

I shook my head. “You don’t have to do this–”

Locke’s expression shifted. He took a slow, deep breath. 

“Your hand.” Sharp. Cold.

“You can’t–”

Locke was fast. In one smooth motion, he grabbed my wrist with a grip that could have been forged from iron.

“No,” I hissed, trying to pull away, but it was useless. His strength was overwhelming.

“You never get to tell me what I can or can’t do,” he snapped, his voice cold and unyielding. “Not now. Not ever.”

His grip tightened, and I struggled, instinctively trying to pull away. My heart pounded in my chest as he held my wrist steady, his gaze locking with mine—calm, ruthless, and unwavering.

“There is no room for negotiation here,” he said, his voice dropping to a chilling calm. “You will do as I say, when I say. It’s adorable when you think you have any control here, but there’s a limit. And you are past that. Much, much past that.”

I swallowed. 

Locke’s gaze bore into mine, his eyes dark, the air around us charged with tension, heavy, suffocating.

He flicked the strap through the air. “You are going to get twenty.” His voice was flat. Almost mocking. “I’m glad you enjoy pushing limits. Now, let us see if you can handle what you have earned.”

“Please–”

“Enough.” He cut me off, his voice final. “You will stand here, hold your hand out, and finally obey . You are getting exactly what you deserve. Is that clear?”

I couldn’t look him in the face any longer.

“Please–”

“ Is that clear? ” he repeated.

I tried to swallow, but my throat felt painfully tight. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. You can beg for forgiveness later, darling.”

Notes:

Please feel free to tell me what you think ^^

Chapter 36: Lessons

Summary:

I stared at him.
Is he serious?
Fuck, of course he is.

Notes:

Thank you sooooooo much for all your lovely comments <3

“I will not leave you,” said Locke.

“You can’t,” I shrugged. “We’re magically bonded for nine years.”

I was curled up at one end of the couch in Locke’s lounge, nestled among at least three cushions and wrapped in a thick blanket. The room was dimly lit, the only sound the low crackling of logs burning in the fireplace.

“You know that’s not what I meant.” His voice sounded reproachful.

I sat stiffly, my hands resting uselessly on my lap, fingers slightly curled, too sore to straighten. The deep, aching burn spread through my palms, up my wrists, deep into my bones. I flexed my fingers slightly, then regretted it immediately as a fresh pulse of pain shot through them.

Locke stood, reaching for the glass of water on the table, then stepped closer, holding it up to my lips. “Drink.”

I scowled at him. “I can drink on my own.”

His expression didn’t change. “Drink.”

I sighed but let him tip the glass just enough for the cool water to slip past my lips. I swallowed, the taste clean, refreshing. It shouldn’t have been as grounding as it was.

Locke watched me for a moment before setting the glass aside. 

I shifted against the cushions, my body exhausted, my mind restless. The ache in my hands pulsed like a second heartbeat, a deep, dull burn that refused to fade. 

Locke sat in the armchair across from me, one leg crossed over the other, watching. Not speaking, not pushing. Just watching.

It made my skin prickle.

I flexed my fingers carefully—then winced. 

Locke exhaled sharply through his nose. “I told you not to do that.”

I huffed. “You tell me not to do a lot of things.”

He arched his brow. “And you ignore most of them. Which is precisely why we are here.”

I scowled and burrowed deeper into the cushions, not quite able to meet his gaze. The firelight flickered over his face, casting sharp shadows along his jaw, making him look even more unreadable than usual.

A long pause.

Then, finally, Locke leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. His voice was quiet, measured.

“You understand that this was a line you should never have crossed.”

I swallowed.

There was no accusation in his tone—just a fact. Undeniable.

I hated how I felt, sitting in his dim firelight, body aching, mind raw, so… safe . It shouldn’t have been possible.

Locke studied me, eyes dark and steady.

I hated how certain he sounded. Hated how easily he controlled me, like I hadn’t spent the last month making damn sure he’d regret ever wasting his time on me.

“I expect you to show respect,” he said. “Not just to me, but to yourself. You can’t keep pushing yourself into destruction, William.”

I looked away. The fire crackled, warm and steady, filling the silence.

“I expect you to be more honest with me from now on,” he continued, his tone steady, unyielding. “You have spent far too long hiding behind your anger and your defiance. If there’s something bothering you, I want you to speak up.”

I swallowed.

“I’m not going anywhere. You are going to have to learn to trust me. Trust that I won’t let you destroy yourself.” 

I didn’t know what to say to that.

I just sat, staring into the fire.

There was silence. 

I didn't even notice when he moved from his chair until his hand was on my shoulder, steadying me as he helped me sit up a little straighter.

A few more sips of cold water.

Soft pillows beneath me, a warm blanket wrapped around me. Steady, reassuring hands on my shoulders. I burrowed deeper into the warmth, and somehow, Locke was there—close enough that I could feel the heat of his body.

The fire crackled gently in the hearth.

I breathed in, slow and deep.

I blinked, heavy and slow.

His hand drew small circles on my shoulder.

I let myself sink into the safety.

When I opened my eyes, Locke was gone. The fire had burned low, glowing faintly in the dim room when I squinted into the quiet, searching for him.

He was back almost instantly.

“I’m here.”

Careful, steady fingers on the back of my hand. A sharp inhale—mine. The cool scent of herbs, the sting of antiseptic. A soothing balm smoothed over my palm.

We both knew a simple spell could have taken all the pain away.

Then my head against his shoulder. Strands of hair in my face, brushed aside by gentle fingers.

I closed my eyes again.

 

 

The same dream. For the fourth night in a row.

I wore the talisman, and I knew—this was just a dream. Just an ordinary, unremarkable dream. A memory.

Down the corridor lined with stone tablets. Stepping over the one that lay toppled. Into the room filled with bones. Reaching into the hollow of the skull’s eye socket… Stairs, hallways. One hundred and thirteen steps down. A long corridor. A towering door. Lysander…

I walked the same path, again and again and again. My pace quickened. Then I was running, breath sharp, lungs burning, every inhale a knife to my ribs. My footsteps echoed loud against the empty corridors.

My coat slipped from one shoulder. By the time I reached the room of bones, I tore it off entirely, feeling feverish, sweat-damp hair falling into my eyes.

I couldn't stop.

Not when I crashed into another stone tablet and sent it toppling with a deafening crack, rubble and dust exploding outward.

Not when my elbow clipped a shelf and sent an entire row of bones clattering to the floor—tibia, ribs, vertebrae scattering on the stone.

Not even when I lost my footing on the one hundred and thirteen steps and plunged, headfirst, into the dark–

I woke up with a shout, sitting up abruptly.

My hands flew to my chest, checking for damage, for broken ribs, for pain—but nothing. No bruises, no cuts. Nothing to suggest I’d just fallen down a long flight of stairs.

I was in bed. Not mine, and not alone–

The blankets were tangled around me, my fingers clenched tight around the soft fabric of a pillowcase. A faint throbbing in my palms.

The room was dark, save for a narrow sliver of moonlight cutting through the drawn curtains. My ragged breathing sounded unbearably loud in the silence.

Then, a warm, gentle glow flickered to life overhead—a light sphere.

Locke sat beside me, his hair tousled, blinking sleepily. He was wearing a nightshirt, barely covered by the edge of the blanket—the rest of it wrapped tightly around me.

Flushing, I fumbled to untangle myself, awkwardly trying to return the stolen covers.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I muttered, still fumbling to find the other end of his blanket. I muttered a quiet curse as I struggled to untangle myself from the bedding—how many pillows did Locke even have?

“A dream?” Locke asked, leaning in slightly.

“Yeah,” I muttered. I tossed his blanket into his lap, but he didn’t seem to care—he was leaning toward me, close enough that I blinked in confusion before realizing he was reaching for the collar of my nightshirt. Checking for the talisman.

“It was just a normal dream,” I snapped, trying to push his hand away.

He pulled back, unfazed. “It might help if you talked about it,” he said softly.

“It wouldn't,” I replied. I flopped back onto the bed, yanking my blanket up to my chin and turning my back to him.

I exhaled loudly.

Sulking in Locke’s own bed was probably not the power move I hoped it’s going to be, considering his only response was a quiet chuckle.

But he didn’t say anything else. I felt him shift around, settling back down in bed. 

I lay awake for a long time, and eventually, I could hear him falling asleep, his breathing turning slower, steadier.

 

 

I must have fallen asleep at some point, because when I next opened my eyes, the curtains had been drawn back, letting the dim, cloud-covered morning sun struggle to brighten the room. Locke was already dressed, his uniform immaculate as he adjusted his cuff.

I groaned as I sat up. The pain hadn’t completely faded, but it had dulled since last night, and sitting in the soft bed made it almost bearable. My hands were worse—the skin of my palm was still red and swollen, warm to the touch, with dark, purplish bruises in some spots. My fingers felt stiff, reluctant to move, and even the soft brush of the blanket against my palm was uncomfortable.

“If I had known this was part of the deal, I would’ve let the Dusk take me,” I said.

Locke finished buttoning his cuff before he looked up. He raised an eyebrow.

Fuck, why is he always so–

He stepped closer to the bed. “Let me see your hand.” Completely ignoring what I said.

I hesitated, his presence towering over me, effortlessly perfect as always, his hand extended, waiting for me to obey. I shifted uncomfortably, still halfway under the blanket.

“Now, please.”

I muttered something unintelligible and reluctantly held out my palm.

Locke took my wrist gently, turning my hand over with a light touch. His fingers brushed the swollen skin of my palm.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

“No,” I lied.

His grip tightened slightly, firm, grounding, but also painful . I couldn’t look at him. The room felt too quiet, like I could hear every one of my hasty breaths.

“Does this feel like a joke to you?” Locke’s voice was barely above a whisper.

I refused to look at him. “No,” I muttered, my eyes fixed on the blanket. The silence between us stretched, suffocating, as he inspected my hand. I could feel his gaze on me, weighing, judging. When he finally let go, I drew my hand back, curling my fingers against my chest.

“Training starts in twenty minutes,” he said, stepping back with a cool, dismissive glance. “Get dressed.”

I blinked. “ What? ”

“Training starts–”

“You can’t be serious.”

He arched his brow. “I’m absolutely serious.”

“You let me… let us sleep in. That means training is cancelled .”

He let out an amused breath. “Do you think it’s up to you to decide?”

I crossed my arms over my chest defiantly, then, wincing in pain, quickly uncrossed them. 

“You can’t expect me to hold a sword like this.”

“Oh, I can,” he said smoothly, eyes flicking to my bruised hand. “It will hurt, of course, but that’s hardly my concern, is it?”

“I can’t hold a sword.”

Locke gave a thoughtful hum, as if I had presented him with an interesting challenge. “I think you can,” he said slowly. “I think you will wrap your bruised, trembling fingers around the hilt. I think you will raise the sword, feeling it rub against your skin as you try to follow the steps of the drill. Perhaps a sharp, searing pain will shoot through your palm.” He tilted his head. “I wonder how many swings it will take before your hand starts to shake. Three? Five?”

He looked down at me, expectantly, his eyes gleaming. For some strange reason, I felt my face heat up. I turned my head away, suddenly aware of the way I was—sitting on the bed, still in my nightshirt, while he stood so close, immaculate and composed, as always.

Locke exhaled softly. “Unless, of course, you would rather we reinforce the lesson another way.” His eyes met mine, calm, unwavering. “I could fetch the strap. Bind your wrists this time—keep you still while I remind you exactly how you got here.”

I inhaled sharply, swallowing, then shaking my head.

“That’s what I thought,” he murmured, completely unbothered. He took a step back, adjusting his collar. “Now get dressed.”

 

 

He made me train for two hours.

Before we even had breakfast.

For two hours straight, we did balancing and concentration exercises—not the complex, multi-step ones he’d drilled into me before, but the simplest, easiest ones. I was almost bored.

Almost.

Except for the way he kept glancing at me—like a challenge. Daring me to say something, to make the smallest comment about how this wasn’t what he had threatened, wasn’t what he had promised… I was sure the moment I did say a word, he would put a sword in my hand.

So I clenched my teeth and kept my mouth shut.

“Stance work,” he called these ridiculous routines. Feet planted, knees loose, weight centered–not forward, not back, until my thighs burned. Locke walked slow circles around me, correcting the angle of my shoulders with the lightest touch of his fingers.

Then, balancing drills. Staying on one foot, raising my other leg and arms in different positions. Sometimes it was just a slight tilt of my head or the positioning of my fingers that made the difference between standing stably or losing my balance. Small movements, like turning my head around or rolling my shoulders down. Locke stood close, watching.

I wavered, shifting too much weight onto the ball of my foot, and before I could catch myself, he was there—his hand grazing the small of my back, steadying me just enough to keep me upright.

His hand felt large, soft and warm—and was gone in an instant, his expression impassive as I glanced at him.

I forced my attention back to the drill.

Locke observed closely. He corrected the position of my right elbow, closer to my body, just with a fraction of an inch. He raised my chin higher, a barely perceptible tilt. 

I kept my gaze firmly on the bare wall of the training room. 

“Keep your focus,” he said.

I tried to concentrate on my breathing. My posture was perfect, and I was sure he knew that, too. I strained to keep my fingers together, my knee bent at the exactly right angle, my back straight, even paying attention to breathe into the lower parts of my lungs. No one should have been able to find fault with my posture. Not even Locke.

But still, he did—a light nudge of his boot, shifting my foot a fraction to the left; his thumbs, pressing into the muscles of my back to make my spine even straighter; his fingers, grazing lightly on the inside of my thigh , just above my knee, the barest touch to adjust my stance—

I lost my balance, my raised leg falling down with a soft thud.

“Again,” Locke said, sounding bored.

I swallowed hard and started over.

 

*

 

A lot had changed since the Dusk attacked the Citadel. The Citadel had been thoroughly searched for any magical traces, both visible and invisible, but nothing had been found. All magical defenses were checked, reinforced, and enhanced. Entry to the public areas of the Citadel was now only permitted after an inspection. The city's protective enchantments had been doubled. Guards patrolled the streets, and envoys were sent to the royal palace for consultations.

Of course, none of this affected me—I still wasn’t allowed to leave the Sanctum. What did affect me, however, was a few new lessons. Twice a week, Lisdin, the Councillor of Sigilcraft, held lessons for all apprentices, where we learned to craft anti-Dusk amulets, which were then distributed among the city’s non-magical population.

Far more exciting, and something I looked forward to much more, was Rowland’s class: in this new course, we were finally meant to learn to fight against the Dusk.

There weren’t many books about the Dusk in the library. Of course, every history book mentioned how the Council had triumphed over the spreading darkness with the help of the Dusk and won the war, but there was almost nothing about the Dusk itself. When I managed to find Councillor Aman and ask him where I could find books on the subject, he merely hummed and walked away.

I tried asking Locke for help, but he just sat me down with a grim expression and started questioning me about the Dusk-incident in the Lost Library. I repeated what I had said before (it was dark, the Dusk appeared, the Remembrance Bird saved me), but Locke only shook his head thoughtfully, muttering over and over that something was not right, something was really not right. I decided not to ask him again.

I was in a secluded corner of the library, flipping through an ancient book with crumbling pages, which contained detailed (and gruesome) descriptions of the Dusk’s attacks (though not much useful information), when it suddenly occurred to me that I was supposed to be somewhere else.

Rowland’s class. 

Shit.

I slammed the book shut, nearly knocking over the ink pot beside me. Grabbing my things, I sprinted out of the labyrinth of the library and down the empty corridors, hastily pulling on my coat as I ran. In one of the stairwells, I slipped and nearly plummeted down an entire storey before managing to stop myself with a well-aimed gust of elemental wind. 

I skidded to a halt in front of the door, attempted to smooth down my tousled hair, and took a few deep breaths before knocking.

As I opened the door, the study chamber was utterly silent. Rowland stood in front of a green board, half of which was already covered in meticulous graphs and numbers. Facing him, all eleven apprentices currently residing in the Sanctum were silently scribbling notes.

Every head turned to me.

Rowland raised his sharp, weathered eyes to me very, very slowly.

I gulped nervously.

The silence stretched.

I opened my mouth to apologise, but Rowland was faster:

“Leave.”

I blinked. “Councillor Ro—”

“If you cannot arrive on time, you will not attend at all.”

“I’m sor—”

“How much longer are you going to waste our time? I said leave.”

“Councillor Rowland, I’m sorry for being late, I lost track of time, but—”

He raised a hand and waved, and the door slammed into my face, forcing me to step back, leaving me alone on the empty and cold corridor. 

 

 

“You missed a lot,” Sol muttered, flipping through his notes. “We learnt about the Dusk’s energy traces and anchor points—things you need to recognise so you can use them for counter-spells. Copy these,” he held out his notes to me, “but I can't guarantee it'll all make sense… Rowland doesn’t explain things twice.”

“I was five minutes late,” I grumbled, taking the notes. At first glance, they made absolutely no sense to me. “Five minutes!”

“Yes, I know…” Sol nodded sympathetically. “Rowland is known for his strictness. But his knowledge is incredible! I’m telling you, he’s a genius. He knows more about fighting the Dusk than anyone alive, and he’s got this way of explaining things that just clicks once you’re in the rhythm of it. He’s a fantastic teacher! It was honestly an amazing lesson.”

I shot him a sour look. “Yeah, everyone else is learning how to fight the Dusk, and once again, I’ll be the only one stuck in my room while you all go off saving the world…”

“We weren’t allowed to leave the Sanctum last time either,” Sol shrugged. "And hey, you’re the only one who’s actually encountered the Dusk. People are still talking about it, you know.”

“That was an accident. I didn’t even know what I was doing. I want to learn how to fight them properly.”

Sol gave me a half-hearted smile, trying to ease the tension. “I’m sure you can quickly catch up at the next lesson.”

 

 

“How was your day?” Locke asked that evening as I dropped into the chair opposite him in the alchemy practice room, only a few minutes late.

“Brilliant,” I replied flatly.

Locke studied me with narrowed eyes, as if he couldn’t decide whether to ask about my grumpy mood, the bloody cut on my face, or my dishevelled hair first.

“Where have you been?" he asked after a long pause.

“Nowhere,” I shrugged, reaching for my cauldron and trying to act casual. “What are we making today?”

“Your hair is wet,” he stated instead of answering.

“I washed it,” I said.

“Do not lie to me, William. There are snowflakes in your hair. Where have you been?”

“Nowhere,” I repeated.

A flicker of irritation crossed his otherwise impassive face. “You are not allowed to leave the Sanctum.”

“I know. Can we get started now? I'd like to be done before dinner.”

“Where. Have. You. Been?” Locke’s voice was more pointed now.

“The roof,” I admitted, avoiding his eyes.

“And how did you get hurt?”

“I slipped.”

“You slipped,” he repeated.

“It was icy.”

“You slipped. On the icy roof.” Locke’s tone was incredulous now.

“Yes, yes. What am I brewing? What ingredients should I get?”

Locke exhaled slowly, as though trying to regain his patience. Then he leant forward, resting his elbows on the table.

“So,” he said, his voice dangerously calm, “you climbed onto the icy roof, slipped, injured yourself, and now you are sitting in front of me as if nothing happened.”

“Exactly,” I nodded. “Shall we get on with it?”

Locke drummed his fingers on the table. “And what if I told you to go to the infirmary this instant?”

“I’m not dying,” I shrugged.

“Rules are not made for you to ignore them, William.”

“I thought we were focusing on alchemy today.”

“And I thought I could trust you not to get yourself injured every single day,” he shot back.

I rolled my eyes and reached for the mortal and the pestle. “What am I brewing?”

For a long moment, he just stared at me—then suddenly pushed his chair back, standing up. I went still, my hands still in the air, holding the mortal, as he rounded the table and stepped next to me.

The mortar landed on the table with a loud thud as Locke’s fingers curled around my face. I sat still, back straight, letting him turn my head to the side.

“What did you fall on?” he murmured, lifting my chin.

“A broken roof slate,” I replied.

Locke sighed and brought his fingers to the cut. His touch was cool at first—then warm, too warm, the unmistakable hum of magic curling against my skin.

I clenched my jaw, willing myself to remain still, pretending I didn’t care that his fingers lingered longer than necessary. His thumb brushed just beneath the cut, slow and deliberate.

I swallowed hard.

“There,” Locke murmured, but he didn’t move away. The cut was already gone—I could feel it sealing shut—but his fingers remained, tracing the space where the wound had been, feather-light. The warmth in my skin wasn’t from magic anymore.

I knew he could feel the way my pulse quickened.

He tilted his head, thumb ghosting over my cheekbone before finally, finally pulling away.

My face felt scorching. I refused to look at him. Instead, I tried to busy myself with reaching for some vial, but my fingers weren’t steady enough and I nearly knocked the whole rack over.

Locke definitely noticed.

“If you want something,” he said, voice cool, unreadable, “you have to ask for it.”

‘I–” I swallowed, my fingers curling around the vial. “I–”

What? I want you to—fuck me?

I could feel my cheeks turning bright red.

Locke stepped back with a satisfied smirk. “A stabilising potion,” he said casually. “Get the ingredients.”

 

 

The following week, I arrived fifteen minutes before Rowland’s lesson was set to begin. The chamber door was ajar, and Rowland stood inside, arranging parchments on his desk.

I knocked hesitantly on the doorframe.

“Good afternoon, Councillor Rowland.”

“No,” he said without even looking up.

What?

“What?”

“You were late.”

“But I’m here early this time.”

“I don’t waste my time on latecomers.”

“Councillor Rowland, please. I want to learn about the Dusk.”

“You should have thought of that earlier.”

“But–”

“Leave.”

“But– Isn’t there any way I could—”

“Arguing won’t help you. Leave.”

 

 

I stormed into Locke’s office without knocking. He sat behind his desk, quill in hand, scribbling into a massive open ledger, surrounded by neatly arranged parchments and loose sheets of paper. My fists clenched at my sides as I stopped just short of slamming my hands on his desk. “Rowland is a lunatic.”

Locke didn’t even look up. His quill made a slow, deliberate mark on the page. “Good afternoon to you too.”

I bit down on my irritation. “I’m serious. I showed up early. A full fifteen minutes early. How the hell am I supposed to learn anything like this?”

Locke didn’t seem the slightest bit bothered by my outburst. He continued writing, his voice flat as he asked, “I assume you are here for a reason?”

“Yes! I’m telling you Rowland has completely lost his mind…”

Without looking up, Locke set his quill down with deliberate care. “Try again.”

I rolled my eyes. “He won’t be any less of an idiot next week–”

“No,” Locke interrupted, his voice cool and even. “I meant this whole…” he waved vaguely at me, searching through his many parchments. “Performance.”

“What?”

“Act like you are not a lunatic, William.”

I stared at him. 

Is he serious?

Fuck, of course he is.

Rolling my eyes, I dropped into the chair opposite his desk. Taking a deep breath, I tried to suppress my “ this is complete nonsense ” expression and straightened my posture.

“I’d like to talk about something,” I said, my voice clipped but far less brash than before.

Locke raised an eyebrow and finally glanced up at me, his eyes narrowing slightly. His left hand rose slowly, and he pointed toward the door with a single, cold index finger.

Seriously.

Clenching my jaw, I got up, stomped out of the office, and slammed the door shut behind me.

I knocked.

“Enter,” he said.

I did. 

Locke gave me a slow, approving nod. “Better.”

I crossed my arms, seething. “That’s what you wanted? Knocking? ”

“Do not act shocked that I expect basic manners.” He raised a hand before I could say anything else. “Sit down and tell me what happened. And please, start from the beginning, because I can’t make any sense of this rambling.”

Huffing, I sat down again. I kicked the leg of the chair with my heel. Crossed my arms.

“You are angry,” said Locke.

“Of course,” I snapped. “Rowland threw me out of his lesson last week because I was five minutes late. Fine. I get it. It was my fault. So this week, I showed up fifteen minutes early —and he still threw me out.”

Locke leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the edge of the desk. His gaze never wavered from me, though there was a slight flicker of something in his eyes—almost like mild amusement. “ Councillor Rowland is a man of rules,” he said, his tone steady. “And while I understand your frustration, your early arrival doesn’t exempt you from the consequences of his expectations. He is not inclined to bend them, no matter how early you arrive.”

“But then what? I’m never going to learn how to fight the Dusk?”

“You need to keep your temper in check. Show him respect. Prove that you are worthy of being in his lessons.”

“But he didn’t even let me speak! I was respectful, I tried to apologise, I arrived a fucking quarter of an hour earlier–”

Locke gave me a pointed look, his voice cool and steady. “You might want to stop starting every sentence with 'but,' William. It’s a little childish, don’t you think?”

I blinked, momentarily caught off guard by his interruption.

“But– Fuck –”

Locke raised a hand before I could make this even worse. “Perhaps the lesson you need to learn isn’t about the Dusk, but about discipline.”

I bit my lip. I am not having another conversation about discipline.

“I need to learn more about the Dusk,” I said instead, forcing my voice steady. “I can’t keep relying on strange magic I barely understand to fight them next time.”

Locke arched a brow. “So, you do realise now that jumping out of windows into the middle of the Dusk is a terrible idea?”

I scowled, feeling my cheeks flush. “Of course. But you are not helping.”

Locke leaned back, unimpressed. “This is how you ask for help?”

I narrowed my eyes. “Well, yes?”

“No.” He folded his hands neatly over his desk. “You are complaining. If you want my help, you will ask properly.”

I let out a frustrated breath. “This is ridiculous.”

Locke just waited. Calm. Expectant.

Silence stretched between us. My fingers curled into fists in my lap.

Finally, through gritted teeth, I muttered, “Fine. Will you help me?”

Locke’s gaze sharpened. “Try again.”

I sucked in a breath. “ Please help me.”

He didn’t respond, not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

I exhaled sharply. “Sir.”

Something flickered in his eyes—satisfaction, maybe—but all he did was nod. Then, instead of answering, he simply picked up his quill again and returned to his paperwork.

I frowned. “Wait—so? You’re helping me, right?”

Locke didn’t look up. “No.”

“ What? ”

“You want Councillor Rowland’s approval? Earn it.” He dipped his quill in ink, his voice infuriatingly even. 

I stared at him, my mouth opening and closing, heat rising in my face. “But– You can’t just–”

“Oh, I definitely can. If you want something, you are going to ask for it. Properly.”

“But I just did!”

“Yes.”

“But you are not helping me.”

“No.”

I stood up, letting that fucking chair tumble to the floor. “Then what the hell was all that for?”

Locke gave me a single, pointed glance. “Discipline.”

Then he dismissed me with a brief, final gesture towards the door.

Chapter 37: Teasing

I found Councillor Rowland in a chamber I hadn’t even known existed.

The air smelled of oil and old steel, the dim light spheres glinting off rows of weapons mounted on the stone walls—blades, polearms, shields bearing insignias I didn’t recognise. It was an armoury, ancient and quiet, the kind of place that felt forgotten by time. Rowland was seated at a worn wooden bench, sharpening the edge of some huge, bladed thing that looked like it belonged in the hands of an executioner.

I hesitated in the doorway. He hadn’t noticed me yet—or if he had, he was ignoring me. The rhythmic scrape of the whetstone against the blade filled the silence.

I forced my spine straight. “Councillor Rowland.”

No response.

I clenched my fists and tried again. “May I speak with you?”

The scraping stopped. Rowland lifted the weapon, inspecting the edge. He still didn’t look at me. “You are speaking.”

I took a slow breath. Stay calm.

“I want to apologise for being late before, Councillor,” I said carefully. “It won’t happen again.”

Rowland finally turned his gaze on me. “No, it won’t.”

I bit the inside of my cheek but pressed on. “I also wanted to ask if you’d reconsider letting me attend your lessons.”

Rowland huffed, turning back to his work. “I already did reconsider. The answer remains no.”

I gritted my teeth. Breathe . “Please, Councillor. I need to learn how to fight the Dusk. I don’t want to be unprepared next time.”

He paused, the whetstone stilling in his hand. For a moment, I thought I’d made progress. Then, without looking up, he said flatly, “What you want is irrelevant.”

I exhaled slowly. “I—”

“A soldier who cannot follow orders is a liability,” Rowland continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. “You ignored my rules, you wasted my time. You think showing up early once erases that?”

“I’m not a soldier,” I muttered, then, before he could reprimand me, I added, “What can I do to earn my place? Please, Councillor.”

Rowland’s gaze flicked over me, measuring, weighing. Then, to my complete shock, he let out a short, humourless laugh.

“Your Master already asked me that.”

I blinked. “What?”

Rowland set down the weapon, resting one forearm over his knee. “Councillor Locke came to speak on your behalf. Said I should reconsider. Thinks you need training before you get yourself killed. That strange magic of yours—whatever it is—could be important.” He eyed me, sharp and unyielding. “If you ever learn to wield it properly.”

I stared at him. Locke spoke to him?

“He told me he wouldn’t help,” I muttered.

Rowland snorted. “And you believed him?” He picked up the whetstone again. “He coddles you more than he should. That’s his mistake.” He resumed sharpening the weapon, his voice cool. “I don’t make mistakes.” 

I took a deep breath, meeting Rowland’s gaze. “Then what do I have to do to get into your lessons?”

He considered me for a long moment. Then he stood, towering, lifting that massive, wicked-looking weapon with one hand like it weighed nothing.

“You will show up at the right time,” he said. “You will not speak unless spoken to. You will follow every instruction precisely. One mistake—one minor sign of defiance—and you will not set foot in my lessons again.”

I exhaled. “Understood, sir.”

Rowland studied me a moment longer, then tilted his head. “Do you know what this is?” He tapped the broad, curved blade with one finger.

I frowned at it. It looked like some kind of oversized axe-spear hybrid. “...A weapon?”

“It’s a glaive.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but before I could, he added, “And if you are ever late to my lesson again, I will gut you with it.”

A slow, cold chill crawled down my spine.

I believed him.

Rowland gave me one last, piercing look, then turned away, his attention already back on the blade.

“See that it doesn’t come to that,” he said. “Dismissed.”

“Yes, Councillor.”

I left the armoury, my mind still catching up.

…Locke had spoken to him.

 

*

 

I sat at the old wooden desk, the heavy ledger before me, my quill poised. The air was still and stale, the light sphere casting a warm light over us. Locke stood a few feet away, studying another artefact, his back turned, his voice droning on.

“Entry 779: Bronze circlet. Inscribed with runes in the southern dialect, this piece seems to have been used in ceremonial rituals...” His voice was distant, the rhythm of his words blending into the slight hum of the magic that filled the whole artefact storage.

My eyes were on the page, my hand writing down his words without thinking.

Locke spoke with Rowland. He made me go through that whole charade—sending me out of his study, making me knock like a good little boy, forcing me to ask for help. Then he said no. And then , he went to Rowland anyway.

I was so relieved and hopeful now that Rowland agreed to let me attend his class… Ridiculous. The man had made it clear that if I even sneezed wrong, I was out. 

Why do I still want to prove myself this much?

“William.” Locke’s voice broke through the fog in my head.

I blinked, looking up. He was staring at me, his brows slightly furrowed. “Are you listening?” he asked, voice low but sharp.

I straightened in my chair, trying to act natural. “Yes.”

“Good. Now, Entry 780.” He turned his gaze back to the object in his hands, inspecting it with the same detached intensity. “A candelabrum, made from–”

“Why did you speak to Rowland?”

“Excuse me?” Locke’s voice didn’t change, but I could feel the tension in the air shift, the question hanging between us like an accusation.

I swallowed, fingers tightening on the quill. “I mean… after everything. After the way you treated me about it. You spoke to him anyway. Why?”

Locke hummed. “Councillor Rowland is the best there is when it comes to fighting the Dusk. You need him. Now, Entry 780–”

“But–”

He held up a hand. “I don’t want to hear it. You need to learn. Until you can manage to not throw yourself out of windows into the middle of danger, you are not in a position to argue.”

“But this is exactly what I wanted—to attend Rowland’s class! You’re acting like I didn’t ask for this. Why make me go through all that ridiculous nonsense, just for you to turn me down, when you were going to talk to him anyway?”

Locke raised an eyebrow ever so slowly. “Asking me in a civilised, polite way was some ridiculous nonsense to you?”

I winced. “I didn’t mean—”

Locke’s expression hardened, his voice turning icy. “I expect you to communicate with me—and with everyone else—in a respectful manner. Understood?”

I clenched my jaw. “Of course…”

Locke leaned in slightly, eyes dark. “And now, we have important work to do. I am not indulging your tantrums. If you interrupt me again, I will gladly put you over my knee and teach you some manners. Clear?”

I opened my mouth to protest—but stopped myself. 

Locke straightened, turning back to the artefact in his hands, his voice cutting through the silence. “Good. Entry 780.”

I quickly picked up my quill, avoiding his gaze as I scribbled down the details, my heart still pounding.

*

 

My room was dark, lit only by the faint moonlight coming through the window. I stared at the talisman, glinting in the dim light. It felt heavier tonight, almost like it was suffocating me.

These dreams… 

I woke up from the same dream I’ve been having every single night now: tall bookshelves, stone tablets, bones, stairs, corridors... every night I ran through the path with increasing urgency and speed, but the dream restarted each time I opened the door leading into the vast hall where Lysander waited.

I stared at the stupid talisman, knowing that if it weren’t on me, I could learn so much more. Dream so much more.

I knew this was ridiculous: relying on cryptic magical dreams was the height of madness. These dreams had once transported me to the Lost Library, where, well, to put it plainly, I nearly died. In another one of those dreams, I lost the talisman (no; Lysander took it from me), which also had rather unpleasant consequences (again, where I almost died).

So it was pretty clear that if I asked Locke for help with these dreams, he would quickly make sure I never had another one.

And then I’d never find out what Lysander was trying to show me...

Lysander, who died a hundred years ago and probably didn’t want anything good for me, I reminded myself. But still...

I reached up to touch the smooth stone, fingers tracing the edges of the talisman. What if—just for a moment, just long enough to have a short dream—what if I took it off?

But I knew Locke would notice immediately if I did. The small warning stone he tied to the talisman would alert him the moment I removed it. He’d come running—furious, demanding answers, disappointed —

The only solution would be if I somehow stole that warning stone from him first.

Which would be the stupidest thing in the world, right?

I ran my fingers over the talisman again.

What was the worst that could happen?

Groaning, I rolled onto my side, my fingers tight around the talisman, the cord digging into my skin almost painfully. 

I closed my eyes, certain that I wouldn’t be able to sleep any longer that night.

 

*

I loved the Sanctum’s library. The scent of parchment, the soft rustling of paper, the sunlight streaming through the tall windows, or the gentle glow of light spheres barely illuminating the hidden nooks... the silence, elsewhere so distracting, was just right. Towering shelves, filled to the brim with books. Something new around every corner. Something exciting. Something waiting to be discovered, to be read.

Why did I even like libraries? It seemed that all the worst things ever had happened to me in libraries.

Now, as I searched through rows and rows of bookshelves, late at night, hoping to find something, anything about the Dusk, the silence of the library somehow rang differently. Heavier. Stretched too thin, like something lurking just out of sight–

I shook my head. The library wasn’t any different just because I was thinking about the Dusk. 

Stealing that warning stone from Locke would be foolish. Taking off the talisman would be just as foolish. But I was going to lose my mind if I had to keep dreaming the same dream every night, over and over again… I had to try and figure out what it might mean.

I walked past long rows of shelves, my fingers trailing along the spines, my head tilted as I read the titles. A cautious seeking charm trembled beneath my fingertips, but no matter how deep I ventured into the library, no matter how far back into its older halls, it detected nothing.

“ What happened here cannot be spoken of ,” Lysander had once said in that vast hall of his; perhaps it could not be read about either? Could such magic exist? Had it existed back then?

More rooms. Towering shelves reaching the ceiling. Some long and straight, others winding and twisted. Colourful books, black books, books bound in cloth, books written on animal hide. A sullen book snapped at my finger, sinking its tiny, sharp teeth into my skin—I swore under my breath and stuck my finger in my mouth for a moment, tasting blood. 

I climbed through a narrow and low passageway. My light sphere followed, flickering. My fingertips were numb from brushing over thousands of book spines.

Then—a single, sharp prick at the tip of my index finger. The seeking charm had found something. I glanced at the books—but where my hand had just touched a dusty, cracked spine, there was now only a bare wall, empty, without a shelf.

Strange.

I turned away. Raised my hand. Books. Rough spines lined up in neat rows.

I glanced from the corner of my eye—nothing. Bare wall.

I felt my heartbeat quicken.

“Stop it,” I told the trembling light sphere above me. It flickered once more before going still.

I turned away and, without looking, pulled a book from the shelf. My fingers felt colder than before.

Hours passed. I sat on the ground, reaching for more and more volumes, even though most of the books were completely empty—literally empty. Sentences were cut off halfway through, followed by blank pages, sometimes hundreds of them. A random word, a half-sentence, a paragraph here and there. The rest were empty pages, and no summon spell, revealer rune, uncovering charm, or secret-opening sigil could change that for me.

Lysander’s name appeared multiple times.

‘Shadowed creatures.’

‘Cursed remnants.’

‘Horrors sealed away.’

‘The darkness shrouding this realm–’

A chair creaked in the distance. My breath hitched, my head snapping up, scanning the rows of towering bookshelves. Nothing. Just shadows, stretching long and dark between the shelves. I sent up a few more light spheres. 

‘Not born of nature, but made, refined for perfection…’ Okay, that’s not new. Only maybe we have different opinions about perfection.

Another page. More missing text.

‘They were meant to be…’

Meant to be what?

I turned the page, but it was blank. 

I gritted my teeth, flipping through the next dozen pages, but they were the same. No faded ink, no erased words, no sign they had ever held any text at all. Just endless, empty parchment, smooth beneath my fingertips.

There was a book about some darkness.

‘The darkness that lingers, that waits, that listens…’

In one book, I found only a few coherent fragments of text.

‘Bound by blood.’

‘Raised by sacrifice.’

‘Sustained by fear…’

Another book was nearly full of writing, and though it was clear that it was written in the kingdom’s language, most of the words were entirely unfamiliar to me.

Another book. Faint ink, frayed pages.

‘No soul remains in what they become. No trace of self. Only the hunger, the fear, the violence.’

The air in the library felt thicker. The silence heavier. My light sphere flickered once more, shrinking slightly.

‘Ancient magics, older than the first of kingdoms. The kind that was buried for cause.’

I reached for more and more books, the piles growing around me, open, half-flipped, half-empty tomes.

‘Blood.’

‘Memories.’

‘Remembrance Birds.’

‘Twisting the mind.’

‘Spellweaving.’

‘Blood.’

I rubbed my temple. The flickering light spheres sent my shadows stretching and shifting, blurring the edges of the books around me. I tried another uncovering charm, running my fingertips over the blank parchment, willing the words back into existence. Nothing.

A whisper of sound.

Not the usual creak of the wooden shelves. Not the rustling of paper. Something softer, closer, like the brushing of fingertips over parchment.

I stiffened.

Slowly, without turning my head, I let my gaze drift to the side.

A book lay next to me, its pages still half-blank, its words swallowed by whatever magic had erased them.

Except… the ink was shifting.

I watched, my pulse hammering in my throat, as letters bled into view—thin, spidery lines unfurling as though someone were writing them at that very moment.

You seek what was meant to be forgotten.

Well…thanks. Never would have guessed.

My fingers twitched toward the book, but before I could touch the page, the words unraveled, bleeding away into the emptiness once more.

Gone.

Like they had never been there at all.

The library was silent. The books were still.

I turned, scanning the piles of books, the scattered parchments. My fingers ached. My throat was dry. The library’s high windows were painted with the faintest glow of dawn.

I had stayed all night.

Shit…training.

Shit.

I scrambled to my feet and strode out, through the narrow passage, through corridors and rooms and halls filled with thousands and thousands of books, my footsteps too loud against the ancient floors. When I pushed through the heavy doors into the main hall of the library, the morning light hit me square in the face, blinding after so many hours in the dim.

I was so fucking late.

I swore under my breath and broke into a run, legs still heavy, mind still caught somewhere between exhaustion and ancient magics and darkness and blood...

Luckily, Locke didn’t insist on using the outdoor training grounds ( I suppose even he could feel the freezing cold ). But the indoor training hall was on the other side of the Sanctum, and by the time I had sprinted through all the empty staircases, corridors, halls, and passageways, I was already flushed and out of breath.

The door was open.

Locke was in the middle of a drill, his sword catching the sunlight streaming through the window. For a moment, I took in how bright everything was outside—the snow gleaming on the rooftops, the pale blue sky—then Locke spun, his blade tracing an intricate arc before he launched into a sequence of movements so fluid, so precise, so effortless, so utterly flawless that I couldn’t tear my eyes away.

I froze in the doorway, chest heaving, warmth prickling at the back of my neck.

Locke moved like water, like breath, like something inevitable—his sword carving through the air in perfect, unwavering precision. His steps were light but deliberate, his stance never faltering. The sunlight struck the edge of his blade, a glint of steel against the cold morning light–

Then he stopped.

The blade stilled. His weight shifted. A flicker of a muscle in his jaw. A slow inhale. His fingers tightening ever so slightly around the hilt of his sword.

He turned towards me.

Oh shit.

“You are late.’ His voice was unreadable first, then dropped to an icy chillness quickly: “ Again .”

This wasn’t fair. I wanted to apologise, I wanted to look remorseful, because I really didn’t mean to be late, I really didn’t want to waste his time— but did he really have to add that ‘ again ’?

“Well, it seems to me that training is going just fine without me,” I remarked.

Locke tilted his head slightly. Narrowing his eyes, like he hadn’t quite heard me right. Like I was something fascinating, something puzzling, something that had just volunteered itself for— dissection . He exhaled, slow and deliberate.

“Oh,” he said, voice so soft, “I see.”

He took a step closer. Then another. 

I fought the urge to take one back.

“Tell me,” he continued, gaze sweeping over me, and I could imagine every detail he saw—my rumpled clothes, my messy hair, sweaty from the running, the dark circles under my eyes, the way I was still catching my breath. “When did you wake up this morning?”

I swallowed. My gaze flickered around the room—anywhere but at Locke. Maybe looking for an escape. My mouth was too dry, my breathing still too fast.

“Well, precisely,” I said, hesitating. I glanced at him, and he was looking at me with a questioning gaze, his face carefully bored. “I… didn’t.”

Locke’s eyebrow twitched upward at that. The silence between us stretched, thick and suffocating. For a moment, I could have sworn I saw something flicker in his eyes—

“Didn’t you?” His voice was way too calm. “Hm.”

I bit my lip. He was standing right in front of me now, so close I could feel his presence in my body, heavy and immovable, so silent, while my breathing was still too loud and ragged, my chest rising and falling–

“Didn’t I tell you that you are not allowed to leave your room after dark?”

Instead of answering, I stared, confused, at his raised hand, which he held motionless, not far from my face.

“Didn’t I?” he repeated.

“Yes,” I muttered. “Maybe.”

His raised hand touched my face, the back of his fingers running gently over my skin. My skin felt warm beneath his cool touch.

“Perhaps you didn’t understand me when I gave you that order?” His fingers traced the line of my chin, all the way up to my ear.

What. The. Hell. 

“Well? Maybe there was a word in my instruction you aren’t familiar with?”

His index finger lightly traced my earlobe before following the line of my ear, circling it, barely touching the skin, leaving behind a strange, tickling sensation.

“Well? Which word was unclear? Room ? The expression after dark ? Perhaps leaving ?”

I swallowed hard, and at that moment, his fingers slid down to my neck. Our eyes met.

“I– I mean– well, technically , the last time I left my room it was still light outside…”

A flicker of something in his eye.

His fingers tightened, curling around the back of my neck, his touch firm, deliberate. His lips curled into a slow smile, dangerously amused, almost—predatory…

“ Technically ,” he repeated in a soft whisper.

I couldn’t look away from him.

Then his fingers twisted into the roots of my hair, and suddenly he was close, so close that I could feel his breathing on my face, and all I could see was the hard line of his jaw as he yanked my head back, keeping me close, holding me still.

“You didn’t sleep at all,” he said. 

It wasn’t a question, and I couldn’t bring myself to speak anyway, I couldn’t even nod…

“Where were you?”

“The…” I had to clear my throat. “The library.”

“Hm.” Cold voice. “Would you like me to ban you from there again?”

 A strange twist in my stomach— who knows why. 

Of course he can ban me from the library. With his strong fingers in my hair, holding me like this, he can do anything. 

“What were you doing?”

He was so close our thighs met. He pushed me backwards, until my back hit the wall.

“Re…researching,” I whispered.

What was so interesting about the Dusk anyway? His knee nudged my legs apart, and slid between my thighs. The Dusk can take over the whole world for all I care.

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

His knee shifted higher, deeper. I made a strangely feeble sound.

“Did you?”

I tried to shake my head, but he held me in place. “No.”

His grip on my hair tightened, and I felt a sharp pang at the back of my neck as his fingers twisted deeper into my roots. The pressure increased, making it hard to focus on anything but the sensation of being held there, his knee between my legs, his warm body against mine—

Locke’s breath was warm against my ear, his voice low, quiet, but carrying an unmistakable edge. “So, you think you can just break my orders, run around the library all night, and then stroll in late for training like nothing happened?”

“I– I—”

He straightened up, stepping away. “Grab your sword.”

“...What?”

“ Now .”

“But–”

He just gave me a look . 

I obeyed, reaching slowly for a practice blade, my legs still trembling slightly.

Locke was watching me intently, his gaze sharp, his face set. “You don’t get to complain. You don’t get to question. You will do exactly as I say, or there will be consequences. Understand?”

I nodded.

“Understand?” he repeated.

“Yes, sir,” I murmured.

“Good. Defend yourself.”

Oh, as if I had any chance.

He moved quicker than I could follow. I’d improved a lot since he started training me, I really did, but against Locke, I probably wouldn’t have had a chance even if I trained every morning for two hundred years. Before I could even lift my sword, he had already closed the distance between us. His strike was swift, calculated, and it sent a jolt of pain through my arm as my blade was knocked out of my grip effortlessly.

Then the flat edge of his sword landed straight across my bottom.

“Again,” he said.

I bent down to pick up my sword. 

He circled around me. My sword was too heavy in my hand, uncomfortable, the movements he drilled into me coming instinctively, but too slow, too predictable.

With a flick of his wrist, his sword knocked mine aside again, this time sending me stumbling off balance. I barely had time to catch my breath before Locke was on me again, his blade a blur, pushing me back in a series of quick strikes that I could barely follow.

When I fell to the ground, he followed, and the next moment I was on my back, his knee pressing into my thigh, his sword pinning the sleeve of my shirt to the floor above my head.

I could barely breathe.

“You’re enjoying this,” I said in a slightly hoarse voice.

“I’m teaching you,” he replied with a shrug. 

“It’s always the same,” I said as he got up, motioning for me to follow. “I do something that doesn’t fit your tastes, and this is your response–”

I was halfway up, on my knees, reaching for my discarded sword, when he stopped me with a raised hand. 

“Doesn’t fit my tastes?” His voice was low, raw. “Do you think this is just some pleasant pastime for me, trying to get you to follow my rules, to sleep at night, to stay alive ?”

I glanced up at him. His breathing was even, his face unreadable. “Well, you enjoy this part, don’t you?”

His fingers brushed lightly against my cheek, a feathery touch, almost like a threat. “Having you on your knees?” His lips curled slightly. “Yes.”

I could easily suck his cock in this position—

Even my thoughts weren’t usually this straightforward, so, taking advantage of the moment, I said them out loud.

Locke’s face was absolutely unamused. He took a step back.

“You won’t,” he replied, casting me only a bored glance. “Pick up your sword.”

I nearly stumbled forward as his touch disappeared from my face.

“But– I–”

“Your sword, William,” he said, gesturing impatiently with his own. “Get up. Defend yourself.”

I climbed to my feet. 

“Do we really have to–”

His sword sliced through the air, fast and powerful, and I barely managed to raise my own to attempt a weak parry. His sword came down hard, knocking my hand aside with a jolt of pain that shot deep into my bones. I cried out.

Then, a flash of his blade—too fast. I tried to block, but his sword met mine with brutal force, sending a shock through my wrist. Another blow, even harder. My grip wavered. My feet slid back.

A twist of his wrist—my sword yanked to the side. I barely had time to process before a sharp pressure landed against my ribs. The flat of his blade. Then it was gone, and he struck again.

I staggered, gasping.

A hand on my wrist, yanking me forward. I stumbled. My balance was gone. A quick, precise strike—his sword catching mine at just the right angle—sent my weapon clattering to the floor. I had no time to reach for it before his knee pressed into my thigh, knocking me off-balance entirely.

I hit the ground hard, my breath leaving me in a sharp exhale.

A slow exhale. That was all. Then Locke leaned over me, unhurried and at ease, while I lay on the floor, gasping for breath, pressing my palm against my aching ribs.

“So,” he said quietly. “What do you think?”

I gasped for air. “I think–” Oh shit it even hurts to talk. “I think my suggestion would have been a far more pleasant way to pass the time.”

Locke’s expression didn’t change. Then, slowly, he crouched beside me, blade still in hand, the tip resting lazily against the floor. His free hand reached out—fingers splayed across my heaving chest, pinning me where I lay.

“A far more pleasant way?” His voice was quiet, almost thoughtful. “And you think you deserve that?”

I swallowed, my throat dry. His palm was firm against my ribs, warm through the fabric of my shirt.

Locke hummed, his fingers dragging slightly across my chest before he lifted his hand. He stood smoothly, towering over me again.

“And I think,” he said, “that next time you want something, you would do well to ask for it properly and respectfully.”

I tried to push myself up, but he nudged me back down with the flat of his sword, pressing lightly against my shoulder.

“You don’t get to behave like this,” he murmured, “break my rules, ignore my orders, show up late, and then expect to be rewarded.”

I clenched my jaw. I wanted to be angry. Locke deserved my anger. But it didn’t stop the heat curling deep in my stomach, the strange tightening in my chest, the slight tremble in my fingers. 

Locke stepped back, withdrawing his sword. “Get up.”

I hesitated.

His gaze darkened. “Now.”

I pushed myself up to my elbows, every muscle in my body aching. Locke just watched, unimpressed.

“We are not done,” he continued. “Pick up your sword.”

I exhaled sharply, shaking my head. “You’re an asshole.”

Locke only smiled. “And you are still not following my orders. Come on, we don’t have all day. An entire artifact storage chamber is waiting to be re-catalogued.”

Groaning, I collapsed back onto the floor. “No. I can’t.”

“If you can stay up the whole night, you can sit in a quiet room and do some writing, too.”

“No. I’m physically incapable.”

“ William– ”

“I am currently dying on this floor–”

He just reached down, grabbed my arm, and hauled me up like I weighed nothing.

“I’m not insisting that you pick up that sword,” he said indifferently, “but perhaps you still have a better chance with it in your hand than without, don’t you?”

Then, without waiting for an answer, he took a step back, lifted his own sword—and smiled .

“Defend yourself.”

Chapter 38: Alchemy

Summary:

Will annoys Locke. Locke teaches him a lesson.

Notes:

This took me a lot of time – and several almost-complete rewrites of the alchemy scene. I hope it works now :D

I haven’t been able to find that bookshelf in the library again. No matter how I wandered through the rows of shelves for hours and hours, no matter how many different seeking spells I tried—nothing. As if it had never existed. As if the night when I read about Lysander and the Dusk, in half-empty books with all the vanished knowledge, had never happened at all. As if it had only been a dream.

But it couldn’t have been a dream. My nights were filled with only the endless repetition of the high bookshelves, the stone tablets, the bones, the stairs, the corridors—always the same, every single night.

I arrived at the next morning’s training as exhausted as if I hadn’t slept a single minute.

Locke didn’t really care about my exhaustion.  

I knew he was toying with me, because for the twelfth time, I almost had a chance to gain the upper hand in the duel—I almost saw an opening, a moment where I might actually stand a chance—only for him to knock the sword from my grasp with effortless ease, as if the whole thing were nothing more than a leisurely morning stroll for him.

Which, to be fair, it probably was.

“Again,” he said idly.

I gritted my teeth.

His blade moved faster than I could track, catching the edge of mine with perfect precision, knocking it aside effortlessly, over and over. No matter how I shifted, no matter what angle I tried, he was always quicker, stronger, always ahead of me.

I was sweating. My breathing was ragged and heavy, my grip on the hilt stiff. My muscles ached, now not just in my arms and shoulders, but in my thighs, calves, and back as well. Tangled strands of hair hung into my eyes, and I could feel my shirt sticking to my back, the laces on my wrist undone.

Locke was measured, almost bored, flawless . His shirt looked freshly ironed. If even a single strand of his hair was out of place, I didn’t notice. Of course, his impeccable attire could be magic—but Locke didn’t even seem winded. His breathing was calm and slow. His movements were effortless and precise. His dark eyes casually assessed me before he swung his sword again.

I tried to counter—he dodged, spun, parried, all with a calm, infuriating ease.

“You seem tired,” he murmured as I swung again. My blade sliced through the air, in my opinion, quite gracefully and precisely—only Locke was long gone, nowhere near it.

“No,” I lied.

He hummed, unimpressed. “Your form is clumsy.”

I rolled my eyes, adjusting my stance. 

Locke waited, turning his sword lazily, brushing a speck of dust off of his shoulder.

I took a deep breath. He stepped into a defensive position. I lunged–

Locke moved inside my attack, close, too close—and in one fluid motion, he caught my wrist, spinning me around, twisting my arm just enough to send a sharp flare of pain up my shoulder. My fingers let go of my sword and it hit the ground with a dull thud.

I barely had time to blink, yet again to register what even happened, before his free hand settled on my waist, pulling me firmly against him, his sword raised in front of me, blade against my throat. 

I stopped moving. 

There was a moment of stillness, the silence broken only by my gasping breaths. 

His mouth was right at my ear.

“Clumsy,” he repeated, softer this time. “Predictable. You know you can do better than that. I hope you did sleep last night, did you?”

“I–” His grip was firm on my waist, the blade of his sword—a practice blade, not sharp, but still—almost touching my neck. “I tried.”

“Do you have trouble sleeping? Dreams?”

His gentle voice was in no way in harmony with how he pressed the blunt training sword harder against my throat.

“Yes? …No!” I snapped. “Do you really want to talk about this right now?” My body pressed against his, and with every ragged breath, I felt my back against his chest—steady, unmoving, constant. It was hard to focus on anything other than the way he was holding me in place, that our thighs met, that I could feel his breath on my ear as he leaned in…

“Well, I have won this fight,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “You don’t even have a sword anymore. Why not talk a bit?”

I swallowed down some emotions, raw and upsetting. Was it anger? Frustration? Fear? A spark of challenge?

I tried to break free. For a moment, it seemed like he faltered when my heel struck his calf, but his hand holding the sword didn’t even tremble. Gripping his forearm, I tried to shove him aside, to step away, to wriggle out of his grip, to escape the sword’s reach...

It didn’t work. I might as well have been fighting a brick wall.

Hmm .

I went still again. I allowed my muscles to relax. It wasn’t hard to let the strength drain out of me. I could feel Locke loosen his grip slightly as well.

There was no point in trying to escape his hold.

So instead, I spun, not pulling away, but between his arms, moving closer, my body pressing against his—I raised up to my tiptoes and kissed him. 

It was quick and sharp, but sweet, and I caught the briefest sensation of warmth, the faintest press of his lips against mine before his whole body froze .

Satisfaction, hot and flaring, deep inside my chest.

In that split second, while he hesitated, while he was shocked, I let my fingers weave a fast and simple spell into the air, just a bit of energy, just a silent push—Locke’s sword ripped from his grip and went clattering across the floor.

I pulled back from the kiss slowly. My heart was pounding. 

I had done it.

I won .

And, well, I kissed Locke.

I stepped back. His eyes were wide, his lips still parted slightly.  I could see it now—his breath was slightly uneven, his gaze flickering to my lips before snapping back up to meet my eyes.

I took another step back–

His expression shifted, cold and implacable, his eyes narrowing just slightly. He took a step forward, closing the space between us. Grabbing my wrist, he yanked me closer, his grip unrelenting around my wrist, his body pressing against mine, making it impossible to ignore the heat between us. His voice was low, sharp.

“Aren’t you full of surprises,” he murmured, the words laced with something darker than just curiosity.

I held his gaze. I bit my lip, almost smirking–

But then his eyes turned colder, and his grip tightened like a vice.

“But don’t forget your place, William,” he said. “Don’t ever do that again.”

His voice was steady, sending a chill down my spine… but he wasn’t unaffected. His jaw was clenched. His fingers were hot around my wrist. His chest was rising and falling against me. 

I met his eyes, a faint smirk tugging at my lips. “Didn’t you like it?” I asked, glancing up at him with an innocent smile.

“We do not use magic in a swordfight,” he said. “Never. It’s highly unethical.”

“That’s not an answer,” I huffed.

“We do not use magic in a swordfight,” he repeated, stepping back, putting some distance between us, but not letting go of my wrist yet. “Not only does it go against the spirit of fair combat, but it also undermines the trust that others place in us. If you were to use magic in a swordfight, it would reflect poorly on you, on me, on the Council, on every magician who has ever earned their title honestly.”

“Yeah, but–”

“If a magician were to use magic in combat, it’s a betrayal of everything we stand for. We are supposed to use magic for protection, for growth, with good intentions, honour, and purity. Not for shortcuts or tricks.”
I rolled my eyes. “I know, but–”

Locke interrupted me with a sharp look. “If you ever do something like that again, William, I might not be so lenient.”

A flutter in my stomach. He was still holding my wrist tightly. I could still feel the heat of his body. The tension. A strange pull–

His fingers finally unclasped from my wrist, lingering for a moment as they caressed the skin slowly before pulling away completely.

“But I will admit...” he began, keeping his gaze on me, with a flicker in his dark eyes, “I do appreciate your courage.”

I swallowed hard, trying to focus on anything but the way my pulse was quickening.

He stepped aside, effortlessly retrieving his blade. “You are dismissed,” he said, his tone casual but firm.

I spun around, following him as he retrieved my sword too. “What?”

“Dismissed,” he repeated, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Go, have breakfast. You have a long day ahead, don’t you? Isn’t Councillor Rowland’s lesson this morning? Don’t be late. Spend some time in the afternoon practising your sigils. Then, in the evening, I’ll be waiting for you for alchemy practice.”

He twirled the sword in his hand before stepping over to the wall to hang it up. I watched his movements—effortless and smooth, as if nothing at all had happened.

“Well?” he asked, looking at me questioningly.

My fingers twitched, and for a moment I was angry that I lost my sword (that he made me lose it so many times, so easily), because there was nothing to keep my hand occupied with. 

I narrowed my eyes at him—his unhurried movements, his confident posture, his flawless appearance, his calmness, his steady breaths.

He wasn’t fooling anyone. I saw that he wasn’t unaffected.

I lingered a moment too long, watching him, waiting for some crack in his composure. A tell. Anything.

But Locke only glanced at me, brow raised in silent expectation.

“Yes,” I murmured, turning to leave.

I was almost by the door when he stopped me. “William?”

I looked back. His gaze was steady, unreadable. "”If you want something,” he said, “you ask for it.”

Fuck you.

“Is that so?” I murmured.

Locke tilted his head, considering me. Then, without another word, he turned away, dismissing me completely.

 

*

 

Rowland was truly a remarkable fountain of knowledge, a living repository of everything about the Dusk and arcane martial arts—and, not to be forgotten, a grumpy old man. 

I had no illusions that Rowland’s lesson would be a comfortable, leisurely session, with him charmingly explaining everything and kindly answering our questions—but I hadn’t been prepared for just how gruff his teaching style would be.

I was the first to arrive. Rowland sat behind his desk and acknowledged my hesitant greeting with nothing more than a curt nod. I took a seat and waited in silence. Five minutes before the lesson was due to begin, everyone was already in the chamber (I assume the others had learned from my mistake), and we sat in complete silence, waiting for the lesson to start.

No one spoke. No one rustled with their papers. No one even fidgeted.

Sol had taken the seat beside me, and our eyes met briefly when he arrived, but since then, he had been quietly reviewing his notes from the previous lesson. With nothing better to do, I did the same, reading through the paper I’ve copied from him. 

Rowland stood. His arms were crossed, his sharp eyes scanning the room (like he was expecting someone to disappoint him). His dark robes, embroidered with runes of defence, made him seem even more imposing.

“Today,” he said, “we are covering defensive formations in combat scenarios.”

A flick of his fingers, and the green board behind him shifted. A hum of magic, and intricate warding patterns, sigils and formations that I didn’t fully recognise appeared in intricate patterns and meticulous details.

Everyone scrambled for quills and parchment. 

Rowland’s gaze swept over the board.  “A magician’s first mistake in battle,” he said, “is assuming their magic alone will save them. It won’t.” He tapped the board. “The second mistake is assuming a single ward is enough.”

He turned. “Alden.”

I looked up. Everyone looked up.

Shit, that’s my name.

I barely had time to stiffen before his eyes locked onto mine. 

“Since you missed the last two lessons, I would like to assess how much you have fallen behind. Define the difference between an adaptive and a static ward.”

You didn’t let me attend, you prick.

I cleared my throat. “Well, an adaptive ward…shifts to counteract different types of attacks. It adjusts based on the threat, like curses, kinetic force, corrosive spells. A static ward, in contrast, is fixed. It only protects against what it was designed for.”

Rowland watched me, his expression unreadable. Then he gave the smallest of nods. “Correct.”

He turned back to the board. “A static ward is a shield made of glass,” he continued. “Break it once, and it shatters. An adaptive ward is a shield made of water—it reshapes, reforms, resists. Meaning—” his eyes swept over us, “—a magician who relies on a static ward in battle is a dead magician.”

Like we all were insisting on using static wards. As if we were all dead magicians.

“Someone tell me the three primary defensive formations for a five-magician unit.”

A few hands were up in the air. Rowland gave a stern look around, and I immediately felt ashamed of myself for not being able to answer all his questions even if I were woken up in the middle of the night.

And that continued throughout the entire lesson – Rowland asked questions, then explained a bit about how easily and quickly we could die, while the apprentices scribbled down his words. I didn’t raise my hand, and Rowland didn’t call on me. Most of his questions were answered by Tessa and a final-year apprentice, Berardo.

The lesson moved quickly. Diagrams appeared and vanished. Charts and drawings of energies, formations, starting points and directions, flow, concentration. My hand was already aching from the constant writing, and my inkpot was nearly empty by the time the class ended.

I lingered for a while as the chamber slowly emptied.

“Councillor Rowland,” I cleared my throat and stepped up to his desk. He glanced up, his expression one of mild surprise, as if he couldn’t understand why I was still there—or perhaps he was surprised that I had the nerve to speak to him. (I was a little surprised by that, too.) “I was wondering if I could ask you a question.”

He was searching through some papers on his desk, but now, really slowly, he set them aside. He lifted his gaze to meet mine, heavy and intense. His eyes bore into me, but he didn’t say a word.

I cleared my throat, trying to maintain my composure. “Um,” I began, “I’ve been thinking about reading something on the Dusk, but I’m not really sure which book I should look for in the library.”

Rowland didn’t budge, his silence only amplifying the weight of his presence. “You can find a description of the Dusk in any history book,” he said, voice flat.

I nodded. “Well, yes, but I’m hoping for something more specific. I’m interested in the origins of the Dusk. How they came to be. And Lysander Langston... I know there are spells protecting this knowledge, but I’m not sure why.”

Rowland’s sharp eyes narrowed, his expression darkening slightly. “Lysander Langston used dark magic to create the Dusk,” he replied coldly. “His methods were deliberately forgotten. Some things are better left unknown.”

A rush of frustration. “Obviously, I don’t want to imitate him,” I said. “I’m just curious. Just because he used black magic doesn’t mean it can’t be studied scientifically. If we could–”

Rowland cut me off with a sharp, dismissive gesture. “We don’t deal with black magic,” he stated firmly, his voice tinged with finality.

“Sure,” I refrained from rolling my eyes, “but we need to understand it to fight against it, don’t we?”

“We don’t keep books on black magic in the Sanctum,” he declared, the words clipped and stern.

“But there are plenty of books on dark practices in the library,” I countered. I couldn’t help the sarcastic edge that crept into my voice. “Also, Locke keeps books on necromancy in his bedroom.”

Rowland scoffed, clearly unamused. “Does he?” he muttered, not bothering to look at me directly. “Knowing more about the creation of the Dusk won’t help you fight against them. If–”

“But there might be something more–”

Rowland’s eyes snapped to mine, his brows furrowing in irritation. “As I was saying, you need to—”

“Something we don’t know yet, something we haven’t figured out—”

Rowland’s jaw tightened, and his nostrils flared. His eyes burned with a fury I hadn’t expected. “Enough.” His voice dropped dangerously low. “You will not interrupt me again.”

I took a small step back. Shit . “I’m very sorry, Councillor.”

“Why do you think there is something more ?” Rowland asked, ignoring my apology.

I stood there, opening, then closing my mouth. I saw a painting of an old, dead man in a purple cloak, and now he speaks to me in my dreams? 

Rowland gruffed at the absence of my response. “Well? If you have an opinion, explain it. Otherwise, don’t waste my time with speculation.”

I kept silent. 

“I believe your master will be hearing about your performance today,” said Rowland finally. 

My performance? 

“If you want to know more about the Dusk,” Rowland continued, “focus on how to prepare against them. Read Kesler’s treatise on the evolution of the Council’s protective spells. Learn the six hundred and sixty-six defensive formations listed by Bjehon in Defence and Defending . Practise energy perception, unbinding, and bindings. Learn discipline. Stay out of trouble.”

I raised an eyebrow slightly at that last piece of advice but otherwise just nodded.

“Yes, Councillor.” No point in pushing further if it wouldn’t get me anywhere. “Thank you for the advice.”

He regarded me with a dour expression, as if I’d said or done something wrong. I wondered if asking him had been a mistake in the first place. If bringing up this topic at all had been a mistake.

Still, I went to the library and looked up the books he had recommended. 

 

*

 

If you want something, you ask for it.

I stepped into the alchemy chamber. The shelves were lined with bottles and jars, glowing orbs of ingredients suspended in midair, and a faint scent of herbs and potions hit me. Locke sat behind a wide desk, flipping through a small, leatherbound book. He didn’t look up immediately, and I stood, hovering by the door, straightening my back .

“Good evening, Councillor Locke.”

He glanced up, and I could already see his eyes narrowing with suspicion. He closed the book, watching me carefully. “Good evening, William.”

I held my posture, straight-backed, hands neatly folded behind me as I stepped closer. “I would love to attend my alchemy lesson, if you would be so kind as to teach me, sir.”

He took a deep, visible breath. “Come in.”

“May I ask—if it pleases you, of course—what we’ll be working on tonight?”

Locke didn’t answer immediately. He set his book aside, his fingers drumming once against the cover before steepling together. He studied me with sharp, knowing eyes.

“Are you planning to keep this up during the whole lesson?”

I widened my eyes, confused, taken aback, so innocent . “What do you mean, sir?”

Locke exhaled through his nose. “Very well. Since you asked so politely , we will be brewing an Elixir of Sensory Enhancement. I have prepared three different recipes for you. I would like you to read through them, then select one and explain why you believe its use is the most effective.”

Nodding, I stepped closer to the table, but then paused as he pushed three open books toward me.

He sat still, waiting. His face looked bored. Finally, he sighed.

“What is it now, William?”

“I was just... wondering, sir, if I could sit down.” I gestured uncertainly toward the chair.

Locke’s gaze flicked to the chair, then back to me. “No,” he shrugged.

Oh. All right.  

I stepped closer to the table, trying to ignore Locke’s smug gaze, and—standing—pulled the books closer to me. He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.

All three recipes were long and complicated. The silence stretched on, and Locke didn’t say anything more. He just observed me, his gaze unblinking, the faintest smirk playing at the edge of his mouth.

The silence was so annoying.

“Well…The ideal recipe depends on what exactly our goals are, sir,” I said, looking up at him. He nodded slowly. “The first recipe seems very stable, and the preparation is simple, the steps are clear. However, it contains several rare, hard-to-obtain, and expensive ingredients... Do we even have parimae mist in stock? Oh, and also, it requires the use of three-pronged spells, which would necessitate the cooperation of three magicians…”

Locke nodded again. “Continue.”

“The ingredients in this second recipe are simpler, much more common. Perhaps its effect isn’t as strong? And why does it even include frog pancreas powder? Who would want to drink that? Also, it takes almost a fortnight to brew, so I would rule this one out…”

Locke tilted his head slightly but just gestured toward the third recipe.

“This one is more practical in the sense that it doesn’t take days to prepare. If we have Norogan stock, the brew could be ready in an hour. However, precision is crucial during the preparation because many of the ingredients seem quite unstable…”

“So? Which one would you choose?”

“Well, preferably neither?” Our eyes met when I looked up. I swallowed hard. “The third one,” I said. “It seems like the most practical choice given the current situation.”

“Good,” Locke nodded. “Gather the ingredients.”

I carefully lifted the book to read through the list of ingredients once more. This potion required a ridiculous number of components, and at least half of them had to be handled with so much caution like they would explode in any moment—some of them, in fact, were actually capable of exploding.

I was just about to head toward the shelf when— wait. I’m supposed to be annoying Locke .

I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. He was again reading that little book, paying me no attention. Biting my lip, I turned toward the shelves and started gathering the ingredients.

Locke looked up every time I placed something on the table, but he never said a word. Eventually, I stopped in front of him and pulled the cauldron closer.

And then I waited.

Locke turned a page in his book.

I cleared my throat. “Um, sir. I would truly love nothing more than to light the fire beneath the cauldron. May I?”

Locke didn’t even glance up. “You may.”

I hesitated. “Would it be permissible for me to employ magic for this task?”

Now he did look up. Slowly. His expression was perfectly neutral, but there was something in his eyes—he knew exactly what I was doing, and he was not about to give me the satisfaction of reacting.

“Yes,” he said, voice as dry as parchment.

I gritted my teeth, but I lit the fire. The blue flame flickered to life beneath the cauldron, and I straightened, glancing up toward Locke. He had already returned to his reading.

Fine. Fine.

I turned back to the table, picked up the first ingredient, and—paused. Then, with the most exaggerated politeness I could muster, I looked up at Locke.

“Sir, if it’s not too much trouble, would you allow me to chop the dried silverbloom?”

Locke didn’t even look up this time. “Yes.”

I took my time, mincing the petals into tiny triangles, watching him from the corner of my eye. His expression never changed.

Alright.

I set the cutting board aside. “Ah, and may I add the silverbloom to the potion? I would be most grateful.”

“Yes.”

Yellowish mist rose up from the cauldron. The mixture hissed softly, the color shifting from clear to a pale green. I picked up the next ingredient.

“Would you please permit me to peel the frostroot, Councillor? If you think I’ve earned it, of course.”

“Of course.”

He remained infuriatingly calm.

Shit.

The potion was slowly coming together; my hair clung to the sides of my face in damp curls from the rising steam, the table was covered in leftover ingredients and scattered vials, and some strange, reddish substance had splattered onto the recipe book. The room was filled with a strong, sweet scent. My potion had a pale green hue, semi-transparent.

“I hate to be a bother, sir, but might I have the privilege of grinding the tabel-tal now?”

“You might.”

The pestle scraped against the mortar with a steady, rhythmic scratch.

“And would you please allow me to add it to the brew, sir?”

“I would.”

But as I lifted the mortar to the edge of the cauldron to pour its contents into the faintly blue-glowing potion, Locke looked up, and there was something in his expression that made me stop.

“I would allow it,” he said quietly. “But that doesn’t mean it’s what you want to do.”

“But I would like to–” have sex with you. Why was this still on my mind?

I lowered the mortar slightly. Tiny, crackling, silvery sparks rose from the potion. 

Locke nudged the recipe book toward me. “Mixing up tabel-tal and tabel-lat is understandable, but it’s a beginner’s mistake. I don’t mind if you pour it into your potion, but you might think about it a bit more—after all, you are the one who is going to drink it.”

“I–” The mortar landed on the table with a hard thud, some of the grounded tabel-tal scattering. “...What?” 

Locke smiled, a gleam of amusement in his eyes. “I said you are going to drink it. It’s part of your studies.” He leaned back in his chair, meeting my gaze. “A lesson.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Can’t I?”

“But–” I stared down at the cauldron. The brew was simmering lightly, now turning a bit darker in colour, indicating that it was time to add the next ingredient before it thickened too much.

“But?” prompted Locke mildly. 

I glared at him. He looked back at me with an infuriatingly calm expression. 

Then the potion hissed, throwing up an abundance of dark blue sparks.

“You should add something ,” remarked Locke. “Or it will congeal.”

I clenched my jaw. The potion in the cauldron was thickening—too fast. I glanced at the cabinets— do I have enough time to find and prepare and grind the tabel-lat?

“No,” said Locke calmly, though I didn’t say the question out loud. “You even have to peel the tabel-lat. Takes a dreadfully long time.”

I gritted my teeth. My eyes flicked to the tabel-tal, still sitting in the mortar, the fine powder scattered across the table from where I’d dropped it. Locke reached out, and pushed it closer to me. “Go on,” he said quietly.

“But–” I glanced up at Locke, who raised an eyebrow expectantly.

“Explain,” he said. “What happens when you mistake tabel-tal for tabel-lat?”

My stomach twisted. 

“They are similar,” I muttered. “Both are used in sensitivity elixirs, but tabel-tal is…” I swallowed. “It’s unstable. It changes the effects unpredictably.”

“Ah,” Locke mused, tilting his head. “So you do know the difference. Then tell me—why would anyone ever use tabel-tal instead?”

I glared at him. “Because in certain controlled doses, it can heighten potency.”

Locke nodded thoughtfully. “I like how clever you are. But don’t forget to mention the rare instance of table-tal-usage when the potion maker, so preoccupied with annoying his master, accidentally prepares the wrong ingredient.” Locke smiled as I had to lean back to avoid the dark sparks flying out of the brew. ”There may come a point where adding the tabel-tal is the only thing that can save the brew from complete failure.” He glanced pityingly at my potion, which was slowly thickening to the point where it began to separate from the walls of the cauldron. Locke leaned closer. “Come on, William. You will drink it, even if there is only a tiny, dry shard left at the bottom of your cauldron. I don’t care if it becomes so thick that you will have to chew it in the end. You either add the tabel-tal, or you let it ruin... accepting the consequences. The choice is yours.”

“But it’s risky,” I grumbled. “The effects can be... extreme.”

Locke hummed, tapping his fingers against the armrest of his chair. “Extreme,” he echoed. “Now that does sound interesting.”

I let out a sharp breath, my gaze darting between the cauldron and that fucking tabel-tal I spent so much time grinding into a fine powder. Such an amateur mistake, but I hadn’t been thinking—I’d been too busy being an idiot .

I looked back at Locke, who was watching me expectantly.

“Well?” he drawled. “You are running out of time.”

I swallowed, reaching out for the mortal, grabbing the glass stirring rod in my other hand.

“Good boy,” Locke murmured, as I raised the mortal up to the edge of the cauldron.

“How much?” I asked. I couldn’t add all of it if I wanted to avoid making the effect too strong – or maybe I should add even more? Tabel-lat should stabilise the effect of the potion. How the hell did this cursed tabel-tal even work?

Locke leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his gaze cool and assessing. “Ah, indecision. I can practically hear your thoughts spinning. How much is too much? Why don’t you test it and see?”

I gritted my teeth, and spilled some of the tabel-tal into the cauldron. It felt almost impossible to stir at first, the brew thick and solid, but after like a minute the tabel-tal dissolved, and the potion became more and more transparent, flowing again. 

I tossed in a bit more, glancing up at Locke, hoping for some hint, some flicker of mercy. But his face remained unreadable.

I didn’t speak again until I finished the brew. Slowly, it changed from a purplish hue to a pinkish one. Eventually it reached a pleasantly thin consistency, and the rising smoke swirled silver toward the ceiling, just as the recipe said. Still, I could sense that my work wasn’t perfect. Occasionally, a few dark sparks popped out, and its scent was spicy and sweet, but when I inhaled deeply, I could detect something cold and metallic in it too.

“Are you done?” Locke asked, after I had been stirring the cauldron absentmindedly for several minutes.

“No?”

Locke stood up, taking out a small glass from a nearby cabinet. He placed it on the desk with a small clink. 

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to drink it,” I said quickly. “I could maybe–”

Locke raised a quick hand to silence me. “You don’t think it’s a good idea?” His voice was ominously low. 

“Well–”

“Did you think annoying me was a good idea?”

“I mean–”

“No, William. You made the mistakes. Now you face the consequences.”

I gulped. He reached for the ladle–

The table was large and heavy. The cauldron didn’t even wobble as I practically threw myself onto the surface, stretching to reach the ladle too. I was quick, but Locke was faster, and our hands collided on the handle at the same time—his grip was stronger, and he yanked it from my fingers without so much as a flinch. He swung it, slapping it down hard on the back of my hand. I yanked my arm back with a painful hiss.

Locke made a quick motion with his other hand, extinguishing the fire that I forgot about beneath the cauldron. He dipped the ladle into the potion and poured some liquid into the glass.

I glared at him. The corner of his mouth curled into a small smile as he extended the cup towards me. “Drink.”

I thought of our brief kiss in the morning.

I glared at him some more.

“What if I don’t?”

“Your lesson ends with you learning about the effects of the potion. You will not leave this chamber until then.”

I bit my lip. 

“You may sit,” Locke said, as if granting me some great privilege, while still holding the glass out toward me.

“But—”

“Sit.”

I sat.

“I don’t want to drink it,” I said. “What if it’s dangerous?”

He shrugged, placing the glass in front of me with a soft clink. “Now you are concerned?”

I hesitated. “I was concerned before–”

“No, you weren’t.” He leaned back, crossing his arms. “You were too busy seeing how much patience I had left. Look how well that worked out.”

“But–”

“Drink, William. Your actions have consequences, don’t forget that.”

I shot him an angry glance and grabbed the glass. It was small but felt heavy in my hand. The potion shimmered faintly in the light spheres’ light, pink and smooth as I tilted the cup. Now it definitely didn’t smell right—bitter and sharp, like herbs mixed with something… something rotten. 

Across the table, Locke sat, looking quite comfortable, calm, expectant. His fingers drummed lazily against the armrest of his chair, the sound somehow already too much in the silence.

“Well?” he said.

“Fuck you,” I said, and threw the potion back in one go. It burned slightly, but then—

Then the world shifted.

The spheres’ light seared across my vision, too bright, too strong. I squeezed my eyes shut, but it didn’t help. My face felt strange, like it was pulling tight. The collar of my shirt dug into the back of my neck, scratching and grinding against my skin. I set the cup down with a thud that resonated through my skull. A few strands of hair were across my face, tickling almost painfully. When I raised my hand to brush them away, the normally soft strands felt stiff and brittle, as if every nerve in my palm was sensitive to their touch.

Even the air felt wrong. Too thick. Too hot. My lungs too tight. I inhaled sharply, but even that was a mistake, because the scent of the potion, of the thousands of ingredients stored in the chamber, of the old parchment, of Locke hit me all at once, suffocating, curling around me–

“Well?” he said. “Effects?”

“Shit,” I murmured, but my own voice did sound like shouting, too, splitting my head in half, vibrating in my chest. “I’m gonna die.”

Locke just fucking smirked . “Noted.” He slid a piece of parchment towards me. “Write that down.”

I reached for the quill, but the moment my fingers brushed the feathered tip, a shudder ran up my arm, sharp and thorny. Too soft. 

Locke hummed, amused. “Having trouble?”

“Shut up,” I muttered, my fingers tightening around the quill, my hand trembling. 

Even through all those sensations, I could feel the air in the room change. 

I glanced up. Locke was very still. His eyes darkened, his smirk vanished, and his fingers stopped their idle drumming against the chair.

“Excuse me?” Locke’s voice was soft. Dangerously soft.

I swallowed. “I—” I didn’t know what I wanted to say.

Locke stood, the scrape of his chair against the floor felt like a jolt through my entire body. He moved slowly, deliberately, each step dragging out the tension in the room. I couldn’t look at him—my head felt too heavy, my focus too scattered. I kept my eyes on the table, on the empty cup, the potion that I’d ruined. He stepped behind my chair, too close, too warm, too much. 

Locke leaned down. I could feel his breath against my ear, hot, making my skin prickle. “Since you are feeling bold enough to forget your manners,” he murmured, “perhaps we should test how well the potion is working, hm?”

And his fingers ghosted over the back of his neck.

I flinched, a sharp yelp escaping me before I managed to shut my mouth. Every nerve beneath my skin screamed at the contact—light, barely there, devastating.

“Heightened touch confirmed,” Locke said smoothly.

I clenched my jay. I would not react. I would not react. 

Then Locke’s fingers moved, tracing up, just below my ear, slow and deliberate, and I shuddered, my breath stuttering, my hands clenching into fists against my thighs. 

“That’s quite the reaction,” Locke murmured. “Tell me, how does it feel?”

I gritted my teeth. “Fine.”

Locke hummed. Then, without warning, he dragged a single fingertip down my spine.

I would not react –A full-body shudder. I slammed my hands against the table, but that hurt too, and I was panting, my face burning.

Locke laughed —a quiet, satisfied sound. 

His hands circled around my shoulders, sliding down my chest, and the fabric of my shirt, now feeling coarse and heavy, offered no protection as his fingers found my nipples beneath it. He dragged his thumbs over them, up and down, slow and maddening. I gripped the edges of the chair so tightly that my fingers burned, every muscle in my body wound so tight it felt like I might snap.

“Well,” he mused, “it seems you have learned your lesson.”

I stayed frozen in place, my breath loud, ragged, the air painful through my throat, my whole body prickling, hot and sweaty, trembling. I moaned something unintelligible..

“Excuse me?” asked Locke lightly. “I couldn’t quite catch that.”

“Fuck,” I gasped. “ Please .”

Locke’s hands stilled. “Please?” he repeated, as if savoring the word. “What’s wrong, William?”

“ It’s too much .”

“Too much?” There was an edge now in his amused voice. I could almost feel his glance sweeping over me, from behind, then settling on the desk, on the discarded quill. “You are not writing.”

I took a shuddering breath to answer, to tell him I can’t , but then I couldn’t speak either, as his hands left my nipples ( finally ), sliding down, through my stomach, and he leaned forward, over my shoulders, until his fingers reached my thighs, grabbing, squeezing.

I flinched, trying to twist away, my body on fire, each sensation like a thousand pinpricks–

“Write,” Locke’s voice demanded, low and commanding, his mouth next to my ear, too loud, too hot, too intense. His fingers were still there, against the sensitive skin of my thighs, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles, making it harder to focus. My body, fully aware of each single touch, screamed for release, for some reprieve from the tension that was winding tighter and tighter in my chest.

I tried to grab the quill, but my arm shook too violently. 

I raised a hand, dragging it over my face instead.

“Oh, what’s wrong?” he crooned.

“Isn’t there…” My voice was low, barely more than a whine. “Isn’t there an antidote?” 

“Only if you brew one,” he shrugged.

My shoulders shook. I’m not going to cry , but there were already tears running down my face, and for a moment I really thought I was going to die, as his fingers slid higher, digging into the fabric of my pants now, pressing into the sensitive skin of my inner thighs, while I gasped for air, my whole body shaking as sobs wrenched out of me.

“It’s all right.” Locke’s voice was steady, almost detached. His fingers moved with precise, maddening slowness, sliding further up, cupping me through my trousers, drawing out the sensations until my mind could barely keep up. He was so close, his body behind me, his breath warm against my ear. I would not react, I would not react , but my body was betraying me, and I was sure that he could feel it, too, as he kept moving his fingers, slowly but precisely, not caring that I grabbed his forearms, my nails digging into his skin, trying to yank him away, or to keep him there, I didn’t know–

Then his touch was gone. His warmth was gone. He straightened up.

The only noise in the study chamber was my ragged breath, my pounding heart, my blood rushing through my veins—

Then his steps, thud, thud, thud , as he walked in a small line behind me, here and there.

His tone was sharp. “Tabel-tal does indeed have stabilizing properties, but its unpredictability is its curse. Add the exact amount required, and it can serve as a useful stabilizer. But even the slightest miscalculation—whether too little or too much—and it will either weaken the potion, make it completely useless, or, worse, amplify its effects in ways you can’t control.”

“But who the hell…” I gulped, trying to steady my breathing. I raised a hand to wipe away my tears. “Who the hell gave them such similar names?” 

My hands still clenched into fists, my breath still too fast, too loud.

Locke cleared his throat. “Discipline, William, is–”

“ Fuck discipline –”

His steps halted behind me. Then I could feel his finger, light against the back of my neck, creeping up into my hair, slowly, persistently, scraping against my skin, then just staying there, not grabbing, not yanking, but still –

“Have you heard about the Elixir of Decorum?” 

His fingers pressed slightly harder into the nape of my neck, pushing my head forward, making my gaze drop to my knees. I swallowed, fighting to keep my voice steady. “No,” I muttered.

“Quite the interesting brew,” Locke said, his voice low and calculated, as his hands tightened a bit on the roots of my hair. “The Elixir of Decorum. Once ingested, it prevents you from swearing. A creation by Elmor Elmerindur, though the recipe wasn’t perfected until centuries later. The advanced version is more... manageable. Instead of the violent effects of earlier concoctions, like vomiting blood, it merely tightens your throat, barely painfully, should you choose your words recklessly. But it will certainly make you think twice before speaking carelessly.”

I could barely grasp what he was saying: my thoughts were focused on how much Locke seemed to like this, digging his fingers into my hair and gripping the roots... and how much heat it sent into my groin when he did this. 

“If you are interested,” Locke went on, “we could brew it during our next alchemy lesson. You could experience the full effect for yourself—a practical lesson in controlling your language. What do you think?”

Think? Why did Locke believe I was in a state where thinking was even possible?

“Well?” he asked, pressing my head down a little further.

“I... I don’t... sorry,” I mumbled. “Please no.”

There was a moment of silence. Then his fingers left, leaving my skin tingling and strangely cold. 

“Good,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous purr. “Your lack of discipline has been quite obvious tonight. You think you want to test my limits, William, but if you keep pushing me, you will find that the consequences won’t be anything you are hoping for. This isn’t a game of power you want to play with me—not unless you learn to respect the boundaries I set. If you keep disrespecting me, you will get something you definitely won’t enjoy.”

I gulped, my throat feeling torrid, hoarse. 

Locke was very still behind me. 

“Do you understand?” he asked.

“Yes,” I mumbled.

“Good.” And his fingers were in my hair again, this time lightly, stroking the curls leisurely. 

I swallowed hard, my throat still tight, my senses sharp—as the effect of the brew gradually wore off, it became harder to distinguish which sensations were caused by the potion and which ones by Locke. I could feel the heat radiating from his presence behind me, his steady fingers brushing through my hair with a quiet dominance that made it impossible to focus on anything but him.

Locke continued in a measured tone. “This was your consequence—reckless actions have unpredictable outcomes. You think you can have what you want without earning it? You are wrong.”

His fingers dug in just a little, a subtle shift in pressure that sent a jolt through my spine. I clenched my fists, the mix of the potions’s effects, his closeness, heat and humiliation making it difficult to think straight–

“I have told you before, William,” Locke said, leaning in so close that I could feel his breath against my ear again, “if you want something from me, you need to ask . And you need to ask properly. This—” He tugged at my hair lightly, forcing me to tilt my head back slightly. “This... testing me, pushing my patience? This gets you nothing. I have been more than patient with you tonight.”

Patient? This is being patient?

I could barely breathe. 

I closed my eyes, trying to steady my breath. The potion was still playing with my senses, everything heightened and overwhelming. And Locke’s grip on my hair… his touch…an anchor. A point of focus. Thousands of tiny pins prickling at my skin. 

“Do you understand now?” Locke added, his fingers tightening, pulling my head back a fraction more. “It’s all about control. Your control. My control. When you show me you are capable of that, only then will I consider your request.”

A small groan escaped my lips. He held his hand steady in my hair, and I could imagine his strong fingers in my light curls– I was trembling now. 

“Answer me, William,” Locke said, his voice now soft but firm, “do you understand?”

“Mmh.” It was hard to speak with my head forced back, with all my senses screaming, with Locke looking down at me with that hard, commanding, hungry expression. “Yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. Please.”

“Good,” he purred, letting go of my roots and running his fingers through my hair. “Good. And when you ask—when you have shown that you understand your place and the rules we are playing by—then, yes, I will give it to you. But not until then. Do you understand?”

I tried to nod, but my body seemed to be frozen. A great fog over my mind. I breathed heavily. “Yes,” I whispered, forcing myself to speak. “Yes.”

Locke gave a low, satisfied hum. “Good.” His fingers left my hair, caressing my nape one last time. “Good boy.”

Then Locke walked around the table, as if nothing had happened, casually tidying up around the cauldron. “The effect of the brew should wear off slowly,” he said, his tone casual. “I gave you just a tiny amount.”

I barely registered his words, still dazed and trembling. He closed the recipe book with a snap and slid it back onto the shelf. “But if you annoy me again,” he added, almost offhand, “I will make you drink the whole cauldron’s worth.” He organized the jars and bottles as if nothing was out of place. “Go to bed after dinner. You are dismissed.”

I couldn’t move. He finished cleaning, methodically wiping the desk with a cloth as his final act. 

Then he walked out, leaving me in stunned silence.

 

Chapter 39: Voracian

Notes:

This took me such a long time... but at least it's looong (because I had no idea where to end the chapter)

I'm not completely satisfied with everything here (and it feels like there was something I wanted to correct, but I can't find it anymore), but well... happy reading! I hope you enjoy this eventful and just a little bit weird chapter.

I was restless. I paced up and down my room, almost bouncing, my thoughts racing. My palm brushed against my thigh, and even that sent a strong wave through my body—was it still the effect of the potion? Or was it just Locke?

I went into the bathroom and filled the tub with water. Then I sat on the floor beside it, letting my hand dangle in the water, thinking about how wonderful it would be to just sit in the pleasantly warm bath, not think about anything, just relaxing…

I can’t not think about anything. Oh, how many fewer problems I’d have if I could.

I left the water behind and went to the library. It was already dark outside, and even though Locke had told me not to leave my room after dark—well, damn it, it was winter. It got dark early. It had already been dark when I came back from the Refectory (not that I could have sat down for dinner—I was far too restless for that).

The library was deserted. I found a hidden corner with a comfortable armchair, picked out a book about some adventurer who had discovered Maurell’s backward-flowing stream, and settled in, determined to finally relax, without anything interrupting me…

…Ten minutes later, I was standing in front of Locke’s office door, chewing my lip uncertainly, my hand raised to knock.  The sound of my heartbeat felt too loud in the quiet of the corridor, each thud echoing in my chest. I hesitated, my fingers hovering above the wooden surface, unsure whether I should knock or just turn around and forget this whole thing.

I could hear Locke moving around inside, the soft scrape of a chair, the faint rustling of papers. Was he expecting me? Would he even want me here? I thought about turning back—about heading to my room and pretending none of this ever crossed my mind—but something kept me rooted in place.

Finally, I exhaled, and before I could second-guess myself any further, I knocked.

The sound was quiet but definitive. Three taps. It felt like the loudest thing ever.

“Enter,” Locke’s voice came from the other side, calm, smooth, not carrying any trace of surprise or annoyance. Just his usual, commanding tone.

I pushed the door open, stepping inside. Locke was sitting behind his desk, his back straight, his eyes already on me.

I closed the door behind me quietly, my nerves still buzzing as the silence stretched between us.

“What’s on your mind, William?” Locke asked, his voice even, though I could feel the weight of his gaze.

“I…” I gulped. What was I even doing here? Locke looked at me. He seemed calm. Patient. “I don’t know,” I admitted. 

Maybe he could see how disorganised I was—or maybe I only looked as disorganised as I always do, who knows—but in any case, he took pity on me and, with a soft sigh, stood up.

“Walk with me,” he said, taking his coat off the hook.

Surprised, I followed him out of the office. He led me down the spiral staircase, and then we set off through the endless maze of long hallways.

“Are you feeling any discomfort?” he asked as we walked. “The tabel-lat might have some side effects.”

“No,” I shook my head as we turned onto another set of stairs. “I just can’t decide if I feel... like this because of the potion, or... or not because of the potion.”

Locke only hummed in response. We walked down another hallway. Eventually, we reached the long, narrow corridor filled with countless paintings; we passed Lysander Langston’s portrait (his stern eyes following us), and then, in the grand hall, Locke opened the door to the enchanted garden and ushered me through.

The chill hit me immediately, and I pulled my cloak close to my body as Locke led me down a winding path. The light-spheres hovered gently above the ground, casting a pale, golden light that bathed the garden in a surreal, otherworldly glow. The garden was silent, but the hum of magic was loud here, ancient, strange, wonderful. The trees, twisted and ancient, stretched up toward the sky, their branches heavy with frost. Silver leaves glittered like little stars above, rustling quietly, even though the air was still. Some flowers still managed to bloom despite the cold—glowing petals of vibrant colours shimmering faintly against the dark of the winter. 

Locke led me towards a bench hidden beneath an arch of ancient trees, their thick trunks gnarled and twisted with age. He gestured for me to sit while he summoned a few warming spheres around us. 

 I lowered myself onto the bench, the wood cool beneath me, and leaned back, watching the shimmering light around us.

Locke sat next to me. He was close. I closed my eyes, and I could feel the heat of his body. 

The garden was beautiful. Eerie. 

Like I didn’t belong there—I wasn’t sure what would happen if I stayed too long.

“I can’t decide if it’s beautiful or… unsettling,” I admitted after a beat, glancing over at Locke.

He didn’t offer any kind of reassuring response. His expression was unreadable, as always, but his eyes were soft. “You are not wrong,” he said, voice low. “It’s both. And neither, all at once.”

“Well, that’s really…straightforward.” I intended to taunt his vague answer, but instead my voice sounded rather small. 

The wind picked up slightly, rustling the branches above us, and I looked up to see the frost dusting the leaves, sending a fine mist into the air. I shivered.

“Tell me how you feel,” said Locke. 

I swallowed. 

“You mean like right now?” I asked. “Or…in general?”

“Whichever feels easier to talk about first,” said Locke.

“First,” I echoed, scoffing.

“Yes,” answered Locke mildly.

“I know what you’re doing,” I muttered, not looking at him. “Bringing me out to this nice garden, where I’m otherwise not even allowed to go, sitting on this nice little bench, thinking it will make me open up to you?”

“Tell me how you feel here,” he said. Somewhere in the distance, a bird started to sing, a slow, deep tune. 

I kicked my toe against the pebbled ground, watching the tiny rocks scatter. “Cold,” I shrugged, my breath visible in the crisp air.

Without a word, Locke waved one of his warming spheres closer to me, the soft golden glow pulsing gently. “And?” he prompted.

“I don’t know. Tired.”

He hummed quietly. We sat in silence for a while. I listened to the bird, the melody somewhat sorrowful.

“Tell me about this garden,” he said after a while. 

I huffed, crossing my arms over my chest. “It’s nice,” I muttered, shifting awkwardly. Sitting there with him was… oddly comfortable. Fuck . “I mean, I know it’s beautiful. But it feels like… I don’t belong here, do I?”

“Don’t you?” His voice was soft, thoughtful. 

“It’s… peaceful. So full of magic, but so…balanced? And I’m not. I’m tense. Like everything still feels a bit too much? Like I don’t know what’s happening or what I’m supposed to do… but…” I gave a short, nervous laugh. “Actually that might be just how I feel in general, too.”

“Hm,” said Locke, looking ahead. “That sounds like a difficult situation to be in.”

“Yeah,” I muttered, kicking at a loose pebble.

The garden was still, too still, like it was waiting for something—or maybe I was.

“It was full of the Dusk,” I said suddenly. “This garden. The last time I was here.”

“You shouldn’t have been here,” said Locke, and it didn’t even sound like a reprimand—just a fact.

“Sorry,” I said, my gaze drifting down to the paved path. “I know.”

Locle sighed, a deep, heavy sound. “I’m glad you weren’t injured,” he said at last.

Another long silence. 

So long.

“You like just…sitting in silence?” I finally spoke. “Or you just hide how much it freaks you out too?”

A quick laugh. “I have…learnt to be comfortable with my own thoughts.”

I snorted quietly, glancing at him. “Must be nice.”

He just gave me a look from the corner of his eyes. I kicked at another loose pebble, sending it over the paved path. 

“I mean, I get it.” I continued. “You sit here, all composed, thinking your composed thoughts. Meanwhile, I—” I gestured vaguely. “I just—” A sigh. “I don’t know.”

“Meanwhile you have a talent for getting in trouble?” 

“What? No. I don’t want to get into trouble.” 

“Well, perhaps you should try wanting to avoid it, shouldn’t you?” 

I turned to glare at him, but he was just sitting there, calm as ever, the barest hint of amusement curling at the corner of his lips.

“Not everyone can be as perfect as you,” I huffed, turning away. 

Locke reached out, slow and deliberate, his fingers brushing against my cheek before settling just beneath my jaw. His touch was warm, steady. With the lightest pressure, he turned my face back toward him. 

I let him. 

“I don’t expect you to be perfect,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost careful. “No one is.” His thumb ghosted over my skin, a barely-there touch. “I only expect you to try.”

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. “Try what?”

Locke’s eyes held mine, steady as ever, as he lowered his hand. “To think before you act. To let yourself breathe before you throw yourself into the chaos.”

I stayed silent. What could I have said? 

“I know you are…guarded,” he continued. 

I bit my lip. I could have snapped back— I’m not —but what would have been the point?

“I know you have secrets…”

I don’t.

“But I would like you to trust me.”

I exhaled sharply. “That’s why you don’t want to fuck me? Because you don’t trust me?”

He just lifted an eyebrow at my sudden change of topic. “Is that what you think?” he asked, voice maddeningly calm.

I shot him a glare, trying to steady myself. “Well, yeah. You’re not exactly interested, are you?”

He took a deep breath. “I have told you, William. If you want something–”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I should ask. The only problem is that I have absolutely no idea what you want. I could say something like... ‘Would you please finally fuck me?’ but I guess that’s not what you want to hear. So what? Should I beg? Because I would totally beg, if that’s–”

His gaze sharpened, and I fell silent.

He didn’t answer straight away. First, his eyes swept over me, from my head to my toes and then back, and for a moment I felt as if I wasn’t wrapped in my thick winter coat, as if I wasn’t wearing any clothes at all, or at least as if he could easily see through everything... I wondered if there was some kind of spell that could make this possible...

He leaned in closer, his voice low and steady, but carrying an edge. “I would enjoy hearing you beg,” he said, his words a slow drawl, deliberate. “But…” he pulled back, “that’s not the point.”

I huffed, listening as the wind whispered through the frost-laced leaves. Locke just sat there, composed as ever, watching me with that infuriating, unreadable gaze.

The silence stretched long again. 

“What’s the point, then?” I asked finally.

“I don’t want you to beg just to amuse me,” he said, his voice even. “Or because you think it’s what I want.”

My fingers curled into my coat sleeves. “Right, right. But what do you want?”

He was quiet for a moment, then, “I want you to ask me because you mean it.”

I turned to glare at him. “I do mean it.”

One corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly. “Do you?”

Yes, obviously, are you blind?

I swallowed hard.

Silence. Again.

“All I want is just for you to ask properly,” he said at last.

I stared ahead, and he turned back towards the trees, too. I crossed my legs, then my arms too. 

“I’m not–” I started, then took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and tried again. “It’s the same again. I can’t be good enough for you.”

He was silent for a moment, then lifted one hand and draped it over my shoulder.

“Come here”, he murmured.

I stared ahead, unmoving, as he pulled me closer to him. I leaned against his side, his hand falling to my opposite shoulder, squeezing gently.

“You are good enough,” he said quietly.

“I can’t even ask for…that,” I muttered, then twisting my neck, I looked up at him. “If I ask nicely enough, will you really say yes?”

“Really.” He gave me a soft kiss on the forehead. “And I think, in time, it won’t be so hard for you to say what you want.”

“But if you want it too, why does it have to be so difficult?” My voice might had a hint of whining.

Locke let out a quiet breath, his hand shifting to the back of my neck. “Because I need to know you can communicate with me.”

I frowned, shifting against him. “I do communicate.”

“You push,” he corrected, his voice gentle but firm. “You push until you get a reaction. You test limits. You play games.”

I swallowed.

“That’s all right,” chuckled Locke. “That’s all right. But you need to understand that you are not playing alone. If you push me, you better be ready for what happens when I push back.”

I shuddered, leaning heavily against him.

“And I need to know you can talk to me when it matters,” Locke added.

I exhaled slowly, letting my forehead rest against his shoulder. “I can talk.”

“Can you?” His thumb brushed over my skin, slow and deliberate. “Or do you expect me to just know what you need?”

“Well, you usually do.”

“ William .” He sounded so patient it made my stomach twist. “That doesn’t mean I can read your mind,” he continued. “And it certainly doesn’t mean you should expect me to.”

“I know,” I sighed, watching the small mist of my breath dissipating in the cold air.

Then I closed my eyes, focusing on how his chest rose and fell, slow and steady. 

The silence that followed was a little less uncomfortable than the previous ones.

Locke didn’t speak, and I let my thoughts drift away as my breathing slowed. The garden was cold, but close to Locke—his body warm, his arm grounding around my shoulder—it was somehow comfortable.

“Tell me about those dreams,” Locke said after a while.

I could feel my body going tense. Locke tightened his arm around me, waiting for me to relax again. 

“It’s nothing,” I shrugged. 

“You are always tired,” Locke said.

“Just dreams,” I muttered.

“Since when?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I don't know.”

“Tell me about them.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Tell me anyway.”

With an annoyed sigh, I turned my head away, still leaning against his side, staring at the trees. “I’m just in some place. Dark corridors and stairs. And I walk through them. That’s the whole dream. Nothing interesting.”

Locke was quiet for a while. Then he asked, “Why didn’t you ask for help?”

“From you?” I scoffed. “I know what you would have said.” I tried to imitate his serious, no-nonsense tone. “ For proper sleep, you need a calm routine and balance. Go to bed on time. Don’t stay up until dawn. Don’t leave your room after dark. Learn discipline and self-control. Control your magic so it doesn’t control you. Control your life… ”

I could feel the weight of his gaze on me, heavy and unrelenting, so I continued to glare at the trees, their silver leaves now goldish in the soft light of the spheres.

“I know, all right?” I huffed. “You don’t need to lecture me.”

“I’m not lecturing,” Locke said quietly, shifting slightly and pulling me deeper onto his chest. “Seems like you can do that on your own, don’t you?”

I rolled my eyes, turning away, pulling my legs up on the bench, my knees bent, my head resting against his shoulder.

“Your mind needs peace,” sighed Locke. “You can’t just wait for it to find it on its own. You need to create a calm space. That means discipline, yes—set routines for yourself, but it also means confronting whatever these dreams are tied to.”

Lysander , I thought. The Dusk .

His hand brushed over my hair, his fingers tracing slow, soothing circles on the back of my neck. “You don’t always have to fight,” he murmured.

I shifted. “I don’t like this conversation. It’s easier when you are lecturing me,” I muttered.

I could almost feel how he raised his eyebrow. “Why?”

I shrugged, waving a hand around. “Because then I can just roll my eyes and annoy you some more.”

Locke gave a dry chuckle. “You enjoy that more than you should.”

I didn’t answer, and the silence stretched between us, almost comfortable now.

Locke finally sighed deeply. “It’s getting late,” he said.

“Not really,” I murmured.

“You should go to sleep,” he continued, ignoring me. “If you would like, the healers can give you something to help with the dreams. For the short term. In the long run, you will have to face the difficulties and talk about what you are going through.”

“How reassuring,” I murmured. “These encouraging words will surely help me sleep peacefully.”

But Locke didn’t know these weren’t just ordinary dreams.

“Rest before bed,” he said softly. “Meditate. A calm mind keeps bad dreams at bay more easily.”

And Locke didn’t know that I didn’t want to get rid of these dreams, but to know more about them.

I didn’t tell him.

Locke stood up and pulled me to my feet.

“Come,” he said gently. “I will walk you back to your room.”

I let him guide me through the winding paths to the entrance of the Sanctum. The building was as quiet as ever, the hallways empty. As we walked down the long, narrow corridor lined with paintings, I swear Lysander Langston’s portrait winked at me.

Locke was silent as we walked through the long halls, up the stairs. Finally, he opened the door to my room.

He sent up a light sphere, casting a bright, warm glow over the mess.

I gulped as we stood in silence, and his eyes swept over the scattered clothes, the books and papers cluttering the bed, the half-empty mug on the floor, the clothes spilling from the open wardrobe—

“I will clean up tomorrow,” I said quickly. 

“Of course you will,” Locke replied dryly. 

“Of course,” I repeated.

He sighed, stepping back. “Good night, William.”

“Good night.”

And the door closed behind him with a soft sound, leaving me alone in the silence.

 

I kicked aside a dirty shirt and with a tired sigh, flopped down onto the bed.

Locke and his obsessions...

But well, I couldn’t even remember how long that half cup of tea had been sitting on the floor. With a quick spell, I made the liquid vanish, then I leaned back on the bed to stare at the ceiling for a while.

Lysander’s portrait...

This time, I was sure I shouldn’t leave my room—but what was the point of lying here, waiting for the same dreams to haunt me again? 

I slipped out quietly, easing the door shut behind me.

The hallways were as silent and empty as always.

I moved through the corridors, down the stairs, across a dark passage. A light sphere floated just above me, casting a soft glow on the walls, the carpets beneath my feet, and the ornate tapestries lining the halls.

Lysander’s portrait was still, as always.

Just an old painting of a long-dead magician.

I stood there for a while, staring at the precise brushstrokes, the blazingly purple cloak, the bright eyes, the long nose...

But Lysander was silent and still.

Obviously—just a painting.

Nevertheless, I spoke to him: “I don’t know what you want.”

He just stared at me with his piercing, unmoving gaze.

I didn’t seem to notice that I was moving closer, not until I was so near that the fingers of my raised hand could graze the vibrant paint of the purple cloak.

My touch was light—just the faintest brush of my fingertips against the canvas. 

For a moment, nothing happened. The painting remained as cold and still as it had been for years. But then—

A subtle warmth spread beneath my fingers, and I yanked my hand back.

Magic.

I froze.

It wasn’t just a shift in the temperature, but something... deeper. Familiar. Like the painting, like Lysander had responded to my touch. 

I reached out again, this time pressing a little firmer against the canvas, and the warmth intensified, swirling between us. 

For a fleeting second, I thought I saw a faint shimmer in Lysander’s eyes—like a glimmer of life behind the painted surface.

And then—

A soft, unmistakable click sounded from within the frame.

Oh shit. 

I stepped back suddenly. Then, hesitating only for a moment, I stepped forward again, reaching for the worn brass frame. I pulled carefully—

And it shifted, and opened, like a door. Lysander smiled smugly. 

A narrow, steep staircase leading downward.

Well, all right then.

I sent the light sphere ahead and began descending the slippery steps, my fingers brushing the cold stone walls for balance.

There were voices around me, whispering, and shadows running up and down the stairs, dark and endless and laughing in a deep, sorrowful voice—I could physically feel the magic around me, its hum loud in my ears, prickling my skin, hard and unyielding but also soft and warm and familiar, wrapping me up, cosy and safe. 

Not strange at all. 

There was a small, rectangular chamber at the bottom of the stairs, lit only by the flickering light of my sphere. I stepped quietly off the last stair, the air thick with the smell of dust, decay, and something... older. A faint, unsettling hum seemed to pulse in the silence, almost like a heartbeat—slow, soft, and distant.

I shuddered as I took a small step forward. The fingers of my left hand fiddled with the talisman, and my right was raised up, ready for magic. 

The light wavered. The faint echo of footsteps from the past run just through me, creeping under my skin, and I glanced around quickly, straining my eyes in the darkness, but I was alone—

Then, from above, Lysander’s portrait slammed shut at the top of the stairs, cutting off the last sliver of light from the hallway.

I conjured a dozen light spheres, quickly (and a bit horrified), sending them soaring into the air.

My boots barely made a sound on the stone floor as I stepped forward, deeper into the chamber.  Tall shelves lined the walls, their contents hidden beneath heavy layers of dust and cobwebs. Glass vials and old books, some cracked and brittle, others wrapped in faded leather, sat forgotten on their perches. There was a smell here too, sharp and metallic, like old blood that had never fully left.

In the center of the room stood a large wooden table, its surface warped and scratched, stained dark by time—or something else. My gaze lingered on it, uneasy, my chest tightening. Strange tools lay scattered across the table, and among them I recognized various potion-making tools, ritual implements, magic-regulating artifacts, amplifiers, stabilizers… but there were other things, unfamiliar to me, their purpose unclear, their shape too unnerving to examine closely. Metal instruments I didn’t recognize gleamed in the dim light, rusty and twisted, wrong, unnatural.

I stepped forward, heart pounding harder, my feet moving on their own. My fingers brushed the edge of the table. I could feel the remnants of magic—no, not remnants. What the hell. The magic seemed still alive, buried deep in the walls, under the floor, in the dusty air I breathed– 

This should have been the moment when I turned on my heel and went to tell Locke.

But there was another door on the far side of the chamber, ancient-looking, worn and battered, and I couldn’t resist. 

What if I go for help and never manage to get back here? What if the answers I’ve been looking for are finally behind that door?

The faint pulse of magic wrapped around me, the voices whispering, humming along the magic as I rounded the table. I reached out a trembling hand toward the handle, the metal cold against my fingers, and the door creaked open easily. 

The air was thick, heavier here, and there was a smell—damp stone, rot, decay, clinging to my skin, sinking into my lungs with every breath I took, making my stomach turn and I choked as I pressed the corner of my cloak to my face, trying to breathe without throwing up.

My heart was thudding loudly in my chest. I stepped inside, waving the light spheres with me. My feet crunched softly against the damp, slick stones of the floor. 

The I saw—

Rows and rows of iron cages lined the walls, each one twisted and bent, most of them broken, as if they had been mangled and abandoned in a hurry. Some cages were empty, some held only shadows. But others—others still contained the twisted remains of creatures.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry.

I could make out the faint outlines of bodies huddled in the corners of the cages, their forms obscured by the decaying remains of what had once been something living. Mutations. Deformities. There were creatures whose eyes were nothing but hollow sockets, whose limbs had been bent and contorted into unnatural shapes. Fur. Feathers. Bones. Skin too tight, fraying over the skeletons.

The magic thumped in my ears, almost painfully loud now, dark, chaotic, wild and raw. 

The cages were silent now, the creatures long dead, but I could almost feel them watching me, their souls lingering in the air, heavy and oppressive. 

Had Lysander done this?

I backed up a step, and I wanted to run, to get as far away from here as possible, back to the light, to the present, to home; to tell Locke about all of this; to tell the whole Council; what the hell are they keeping behind their walls, this…torture chamber, this—graveyard...

I should have left. 

But some flicker…not a flicker of light, more like a flicker of darkness.

What?

I waved a light sphere forward. Its glow fell on a large cage: thick iron bars etched with runes, then—then the darkness obscuring the inside of the cage swallowed my sphere. 

What the hell?

Another perfect moment where I could have turned and run.

Despite the gut-wrenching nausea swirling in my stomach, I stepped forward. I was careful not to look at the cages lining the walls. 

In that large cage there was only darkness…

I conjured another light sphere, sending it forward slowly, but it was already too dim,  flickering as I stepped closer, illuminating rows of sigils carved deep into the iron bars. They pulsed faintly, humming beneath my fingers as I traced one. Old magic, twisted and thick, pulsing with a faint, dangerous glow. Not just a cage—a seal. 

I let the magic simmer against my fingertips, ancient and dark and pulling—

Pulling at my own magic—

Another light sphere vanished.

A sound.

Faint.

A breath—?

I wove a light spell into the air. Not a tiny, simple one like the spheres, but one that bathed the entire room in brilliant light, casting everything—every cursed cage and mutilated creature—in its glow, blinding me for a moment—

Then it disappeared. As if it had never been there...

No. As if it had been drained. Devoured.

And in the last faint remnants of the light, I saw the fangs, huge and jagged, right in front of me, nothing separating us except the sigil-etched bars of the iron cage. 

I stumbled back, slamming into a shelf, sending smaller cages crashing to the ground, Their doors bursting open, bones scattering around…

I pressed a palm to my churning stomach and straightened up.

And then the eyes opened.

Silver. Not shining, but burning, twin slits of molten light splitting through the void.

But it’s all right, there’s a huge, magically enforced cage between us…

And then the creature stepped forward.

Slipping through the bars of the cage like they weren’t even there. 

Shit.

I turned and ran.

I heard it move behind me—the scrape of claws on stone, the wet sound of something shifting, stretching, unfolding from the shadows. I didn’t look back. I cut across the room, through the previous chamber, then slipped and stumbled up the stairs, tearing Lysander’s portrait open and bursting into the hallway.

Lysander’s face was sliced in half by a massive claw as the creature charged after me.

I slammed my back against the wall. All my light spheres had vanished by now, and the corridor was illuminated only by the faint lanterns in the distant corners. My heart pounded in my throat as I pressed myself into the wall, trying to catch my breath as quietly as possible.

A low growl vibrated through the floor, through the wall—through me.

The creature’s form emerged like rippling shadows and shimmering threads of light, like smoke—its body flickering in and out of sight, stretching as if woven from darkness itself. Its fur shimmered faintly, like shadows, like magic. It moved slowly, almost deliberately, as if savoring the moment before it would close in on me.

For a moment, I thought it was a creature of the Dusk. But it was different…It had thick, black fur. Glowing eyes, pale, silver-white, shimmering with cold hunger. 

It slowly stepped closer, sniffing the air. My eyes couldn’t keep up with its movement, its form stretching and twisting, like one moment it was stepping through Lysander's torn painting, and the next its jaw was inches from my face, its icy breath on my skin...

I barely had time to react before it lunged. Instinctively, I pushed off the wall and sprinted down the hallway as fast as my legs could carry me. The creature followed, its form twisting in and out of existence, phasing through shadows. It kept pace with me despite my frantic speed, and I could hear—no, feel—it closing in.

The claws scraped against the stone floor, a terrible, rhythmic sound that vibrated through the walls, and its breath, sharp and hungry, pulled at the space around me, making my skin crawl.

Panic. I cast every spell I could think of—slowing spells, paralytic enchantments, sedative charms, petrification, and I even tried sigils, though I was never really good at sigils—nothing happened.

“Get away!” I shouted, slamming into a ceramic vase, knocking it off its pedestal. It crashed to the ground with an ear-splitting sound.

I turned another corner, my legs burning. The hallway stretched endlessly, no escape in sight. And yet it was gaining on me—no matter how fast I ran, no matter how many spells I cast, it was always just there, too close.

I rounded another corner, eyes wild, desperate, but—

Crash .

The creature’s claws tore through a wall, sending debris flying in all directions. I barely dodged it, my heart leaping into my throat as I continued to flee, knowing I couldn’t keep this up for much longer.

A roar, deafening, and I barely managed to duck as the creature leapt toward me. I stumbled, almost falling as I threw up a barrier of magic, weak, desperate, already vanishing. 

The corridor ended at another narrow passage, but before I could decide which way to run, I realised I simply didn’t have the strength to flee any longer.

I stood with my back pressed against the cold stone wall, chest heaving as I fought to steady my breath.

The creature stood before me, its glowing silver eyes locking onto mine. It was impossibly still for a moment, as if the world had paused, the weight of its gaze pressing down on me. Its form flickered in and out of reality like smoke: an ever-shifting beast of shadows. The massive claws twitched, and I could almost hear the screech of tearing flesh… the blood spluttering on the walls… 

For a moment, I could almost feel its jagged fangs sinking into my skin, and I thought about how angry Locke would be if I died in such a stupid way—

Then, suddenly, it took a step back.

And then, far in the distance, I heard it. Voices. Footsteps. The sound of hurried movement, far away now, but coming closer.

The creature’s head twitched. It had heard it too.

I held my breath, eyes darting down the two darkened corridors on either side, panic rising as the voices and footsteps grew louder, coming closer. As terrifying as the thought seemed, that those massive teeth were about to tear me apart, it suddenly seemed even more dreadful that anyone would find out what I had unleashed upon the Sanctum.

But the creature turned around, and ran.

What?

I collapsed against the wall, gasping for breath. Muffled voices echoed down the hall, the sound of approaching footsteps growing louder. My lungs burned, my side ached, and I could barely focus on the rush of noise around me as councillors and guards arrived, their shouts and questions filling the air.

“What was that noise?”

“What even is this chaos?”

“There’s a piece missing from the wall!”

“You will owe an explanation for this–”

“This is that boy again–”

“I’ve said for a long time that he should be locked up–”

I  didn’t hear most of it. I was too focused on the pounding in my head, my pulse—then Locke was in front of me, grabbing my face and forcing me to look at him.

“What happened?” His voice was low, quiet. Dark.

I swallowed hard, still gasping for air. “I don’t know. I was chased... by something.”

Locke’s eyes flashed darkly. “Something,” he repeated.

I nodded, my hands trembling as I pushed weakly at his hold. “Yes,” I muttered, still winded, annoyed by his grip.

He stared at me for a long moment before asking, his voice flat and threatening, “Where is it?”

“It left.”

Locke took a deep breath. I was sure that any gentleness he had shown in the garden earlier was now gone forever. “Where?” he hissed.

I raised my hand and gestured towards one of the dark hallways.

Locke turned away. Quiet words between him and the others. Footsteps started down the hallway, light spheres rising to illuminate the way.

“Go back to your room,” Locke ordered, not even looking at me. “Now. If you encounter any danger on the way, send a distress spell.” I opened my mouth to protest, but he cut me off, his tone unforgiving. “Now.”

And he was gone too, after the others, to face the danger that only my stupid curiosity had unleashed upon them.

I stayed pressed against the wall as the echoes of their footsteps faded into the distance, my breath shallow, my chest tightening with every exhale. My legs felt like they were made of lead.

I turned slowly, facing the opposite direction, the shadows darker now that the torches had flickered low. The hallway stretched before me, long and empty, but I could feel it—the cold, invisible pull of that thing, still out there, hungry.

Taking a deep breath, I started after the creature.

I didn’t have to go far.

Around the next corner, there it was—crouched in the darkness, immense and silent. The creature’s glowing silver eyes locked onto mine, its body rippling with shadows. 

It was waiting for me.

“What’s the deal?” I growled, stepping forward. “You’re only such a big boy when your opponent is alone? As soon as others show up, you crawl away into a corner?”

I wasn’t sure if it understood me. Probably not. But the next moment, its muscles tensed, and it lunged, moving faster than I could react. Instinctively, I raised my hands, trying to shield myself with a defensive spell.

There wasn’t much use – the creature absorbed the magic like it was its life force.

And once again, we were back where we started:. I ran down the hallway, the creature behind me, with claws, fangs, and an almost non-existent reality, living off shadows and magic, sucking up every spell I threw at it.

Down the hallway.

Up the stairs.

Into a large auditorium, hopping over rising rows of benches.

I kicked the door open, sprinting down another hallway. Down a flight of stairs—

I thought that if I jumped over the railing at the stair landing, I could go faster, gain an advantage... Instead, my foot slipped, and with a shout, I fell forward, crashing into the steps, yelping at the painful snap of bones as I hit the ground.

Oh shit.

A sharp, searing pain shooting through my side. I gasped, choking on the air that escaped my lungs as I lay sprawled across the cold stone steps. I struggled to push myself up, but my head spun, my breath came in short, gasping bursts, and for a moment, I couldn’t move—

It stepped forward, slowly this time, deliberate. Its form flickered, its silver eyes locking onto mine, glowing brighter in the dim light. Shadows rippled around its body, shifting like smoke, stretching unnaturally.

Everything hurt. I clenched my jaw, sucking in a sharp breath. Pain exploded through my side as I braced a shaking hand against the floor. I forced myself up, dragging in shallow, ragged breaths as I pressed my other hand to the wall for support, willing my legs to hold steady even as my vision swam. Then–

Then, before I could even fully stand,  I felt something sharp and heavy slam into me. The air whooshed out of my lungs, and I crashed to the steps again, landing hard on my side. The creature was on me.

I tried to scream, but no voice came out.

The creature used a huge claw to turn me onto my back. I could hear broken ribs grind in my chest.

The creature’s claws sank deeper into my chest, pinning me to the stone, and my head spun. So much blood. I reached out, tried again to cast something—anything—just to push it away, to get it off me.

The pull was instant; violent.

A sharp, ripping force tore through me, like invisible claws hooked deep into my core and yanked. Magic, drained—no, wrenched from me, dragged out in a way that made my bones feel hollow.

Splintering shreds of magic. Of reality. 

I could feel my body writhe. Agonising pain in my chest. The sharp edge of a step pressed against my shoulder.

Magic bleeding through me. 

I gasped, but no air came. My body was seizing, spasming, locked in place. Nerves burning. Finger twitching uselessly.

Darkness, at the edges of my vision. 

Heartbeats.

Slow.

Getting slower—

My mind screamed at me to move, to do something, to fight—

Magic was unraveling around me, filling the air with a loud hum, and the creature—the creature was looming above me, no longer flickering, no longer swirling at the edges—it was solid now, anchored, existing —a deepless void, hollow, like a wound in reality itself, swallowing magic through me—

I felt my back arch violently. A dry, strangled noise, pain, white-hot and searing—

Something shifting in the air. A presence—

Footsteps. Shouting.

Fighting… not magic. Swords .

Then the grip on me loosened, just a fraction, and I could feel the creature’s attention shift.

Voices. Loud, urgent. Shadows moving fast, figures—real people.

The creature let out a deep, guttural hiss—and then the weight pressing against my chest vanished.

Air . I gasped, pulling in a shallow breath.  

The world around me was spinning. 

Everything hurt.

Slowly, painfully, I forced my eyes to open a little wider. Tried to raise my head.

Flashes of people—shadows against the dim lights. They were fighting the creature. Its shape was now distorted and smaller, flickering again.

I let my head thump back down against the stairs. Everything felt so far away, and the sounds of the fight—swords clashing, the creature’s screeches—began to fade. Then, there was nothing. 

Silence.

 

I felt hands on me, pulling me up, but I couldn’t move. My body refused to cooperate.

“Stay with me,” Locke muttered, his voice low but sharp. “You are not dead yet.”

His hand pressed against my chest. The heat of healing magic…intense, rough, painful. Forceful, like Locke was trying to shove life back into me with his will alone. 

It hurt. 

“Relax,” Locke snapped when I flinched. “If you keep squirming, I will make it worse.”

My fingers were twitching. Magic . Did the creature…drain me? Was it gone? What if it just…devoured it? What if—

I tried to speak, my throat dry and cracked, but it took a moment before the words came out, weak and hoarse. “My magic…?”

Locke’s eyes didn’t even flicker toward me as he worked, his hands still pressing against my chest. His voice was dismissive, as if he couldn’t care less about my panic. “You should have thought about that earlier, shouldn’t you?” he said with a shrug, his tone cold.

What? What the–

Pain—a sharp heat in my chest, Locke’s fingers moving firmly over my chest as the broken bones slid back into place. I gasped for air, finally able to fill my lungs. 

I coughed, the sound harsh and dry.

“Your magic is fine,” Locke said flatly, his magic still in my chest, in my body, healing relentlessly.

I blinked, my vision slowly coming back into focus. The world was still spinning, but the pain in my chest was dulling now. 

There were people in the small hall at the bottom of the stairs, and broken fragments of stone scattered across the floor, a few cracks in the walls—the fight had ended. There was blood. Ripped tapestries.

Next to Locke, lying on the stairs, was a long and beautiful sword, shimmering with silver. Its blade was covered in runes.

Rowland was standing a few feet away, his glaive resting lightly in his hand, looking like pure, raw power. Locke glanced up as he walked closer.

“Shall I gut him for you?” And he twirled the glaive's handle between his fingers, the blade gleaming brightly in the light of the spheres.

“No,” snapped Locke.

“It’s not a bad idea, though,” I muttered. ”It would save you so much trouble.”

“ No ,” Locke snapped at me too. 

His hands were still pressed to my chest, his magic searing through me. He was trembling—the exhaustion from the fight? The weight of the healing magic? The rage ?

Finally, he leaned back. His breathing was heavy, shallow, his face pale. He wiped his hand across his brow, flicking sweat off. His eyes never left me.

“Up.”

I pushed myself up on my elbows. My body was still tender, and I could feel the lingering heat of the healing magic rippling through my skin.

He grabbed my arm and yanked me up in a single, brutal pull. My breath caught as my heel slipped on the edge of the step, and Locke’s grip tightened on my other arm, steadying me. The world tilted for a moment, my vision struggling to catch up with the reality of being upright.

My body felt too light.

Or too heavy, it was hard to decide.

Then his hands moved, rough, methodical, pushing and pressing—digging his fingers into my chest, right over the ribs he’d just healed. “Hurts?” he asked.

“Yes,” I hissed.

“Good.” 

Then his fingers were against my neck, hot and steady, as he found my pulse.

My eyes wandered to the others in the hall, someone repairing a broken window right now, others discussing things in low, tense voices. “What–”

“Quiet.”

He stood silent and motionless, and I could feel my skin throb under his fingers, my blood rushing in my veins.

“Go to my study,” he said at last.

“But–”

“Now.”

I didn’t look at anyone as I crossed the hall. 

 

It was cold in Locke’s office. I just stood there, too nervous to sit down, too terrified to pace. My eyes lingered on the massive bookshelf behind his desk, and suddenly, for some reason, I wondered what the monks must have thought when I just disappeared… If I hadn’t tried to steal that book at the market that day, would any of this have ever happened?

My fingers fiddled with the talisman hanging around my neck. Would I have stood a better chance against that thing if I had taken it off? Or would it have just drained even more magic from me? Through me?

What the hell even was that creature?

And why had Lysander kept something like that locked away in his secret chamber?

What had he been doing to those poor beings down there?

And what am I going to say about why I was there?

The door swung open hard, then slammed shut behind Locke.

I flinched.

For a moment, he just stood there, breathing hard, his shoulders taut with tension, his face unreadable.

Then, finally—

“Sit.”

I bit my lip. Hesitated for a moment. He took a step closer, his eyes flashing, and suddenly sitting seemed like the smartest thing in the world. I threw myself into the chair.

He nodded curtly. He stepped behind his desk but didn’t sit down, instead lean on it with both hands, staring at me like a vulture watching its prey (I quickly reminded myself that vultures’ prey are usually dead. Hmm ).

“How many times…” His voice was shaking. He stopped, took a deep breath. “How many times do I have to find you half-dead?”

I swallowed, sitting stiffly on that chair, avoiding his eyes. 

“How many times does it have to happen before you stop acting like you are invincible?” His voice was low but forceful, each word deliberate, like he was forcing himself to stay in control.

I didn’t answer. What was I supposed to say? Sorry?  

Locke exhaled sharply, shaking his head, then straightened, pushing off the desk. He started moving—small, measured steps behind his chair, his hands clasping together only to unclasp a moment later.

“What do I have to do,” he asked in a low voice, “for you to value your own life?”

His footsteps echoed against the floor, his pacing slow, measured. His fingers dragged through his hair once before dropping back to his side.

“You think this is nothing, don’t you?” His voice was quieter now, but no less sharp. “Like it’s just another mistake, another reckless decision that somehow worked out in the end.”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Then why?” He stopped pacing, facing me now. “Why do you keep doing this? Why do you keep throwing yourself into danger like you have any idea what you are doing?”

I looked away, chewing my lip. 

The silence stretched.

“What was…” I stopped, clearing my throat. “What even was that thing?”

He scoffed, raising an eyebrow. His hand rested on his desk, his fingers tapping against the wood slowly. “You think I owe you answers?” His voice was pure steel, his eyes burning as they locked onto mine.

“I just—”

With a quick motion, he pulled out his chair and sat down swiftly; one leg crossed over the other, his wrist resting against the tabletop. “No. You don’t get to ask questions. You don’t get to sit there and pretend like you suddenly care about what kind of danger you walked into without any caution. You are the one who is going to talk.”

I swallowed, throat dry.

His hand pressed against the desk, leaning in slightly. “Now, William.”

I shifted in my seat, reaching up to the talisman, pulling the cord taut, twisting it between my fingers. “I–” I swallowed. “I just thought–”

“You thought ,” he repeated. “No, William. You didn’t think . You acted. Without planning, without help, without any regard for the consequences.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

He’s right, after all.

Silence.

I was kicking the leg of the chair with my heel, the sound dull and rhythmic. I was gripping the talisman so tightly that the cord dug deep into the skin of my neck.

“Stop that,” Locke said suddenly. My fingers froze around the talisman. “We don’t–”

“...play with powerful magical objects,” I mumbled, lowering my hand. 

Locke waved an impatient hand. “Tell me what happened.”

I was quiet for a while, staring at the dark blue carpet in front of me. I swallowed hard, glanced at Locke from the corner of my eye, then stared at the leg of the table for a little longer.

“It was... nice... talking,” I finally spoke. “In the garden. With you. I just... I mean... I don’t want this thing to ruin everything now.”

 Locke briefly closed his eyes, but when he opened them again, his face hadn’t softened at all.

“Just continue,” he shook his head.

“There’s that portrait down the long hallway,” I muttered. “Of Lysander Langston.”

Locke furrowed his brow. “You once said you dreamed about him.” His voice sounded suspicious.

“Yeah,” I answered slowly.

“And do you dream about him still?” Locke narrowed his eyes.

“Sometimes,” I admitted. “Not really anymore... I mean, I mostly dreamed about him when I wasn’t wearing the talisman. Now it’s not really that... It’s just the same dream repeating over and over, where I’m going somewhere, but when I would finally reach it, the dream just starts over again. I feel like Lysander is trying to show me something, and I know it’s ridiculous since he’s been dead for so long, but–”

“Memories,” Locke interrupted suddenly. “Magic remembers.”

“I... I don’t know. I don’t understand. But I know that Lysander created the Dusk, and that something very dark happened there, and that all of this is kept secret, or maybe some magic is hiding the truth, or... I don’t know. Anyway, I feel like there’s something here, some kind of secret, and maybe if we knew it, we’d have a better chance against the Dusk…”

Locke looked at me with such a stern expression that I fell silent.

“I know it’s foolish,” I muttered, lowering my head. “I don’t know anything about the Dusk compared to you all, I just– It’s just these stupid dreams, and I thought that if I understood them better, maybe they’d stop.”

“So, just to make sure I understand correctly; I even asked you about these dreams, but instead of talking to me, instead of asking for help, you nearly got yourself killed by a Voracian?”

I glanced up. “A Voracian?”

Locke waved away my question. “Later. Tell me what happened tonight.”

He didn’t seem like someone who would welcome any contradiction, so I swallowed hard and began talking about how I went to Lysander’s portrait–

“While it was forbidden for you to leave your room,” he added.

I talked about how the portrait, for no apparent reason, opened–

“And then you thought it was a good idea to walk into a hidden, secret chamber? Alone?”

Biting my lip, I told him about the things down there, the cages, and the creatures that once lived in them–

“And even then, you didn’t think you should turn back,” Locke remarked dryly.

“But I did,” I replied defensively. “I just…” Seeing his gaze, the defiance evaporated from me in an instant.

“You just?” Locke prompted.

“I don’t know.” I lowered my head. “I was curious.”

“Curious,” scoffed Locke. 

“Sorry,” I mumbled. 

“Continue,” sighed Locke.

“I don’t know how it got free,” I said quickly. “That thing. The Voracian. One minute it was in the cage, sealed, then it was…out.”

“It feeds on magic,” shrugged Locke, as if he were totally uninterested in mysterious magical creatures breaking out from their centuries-old cages. “Most magicians never encounter them because the Voracians can withdraw for centuries, spending their time in sleep if they have absorbed enough magic. You probably used some magic, the Voracian could feed on it, and got strong enough to break the seals.”

“But I didn’t want to set it free! It wasn’t my–”

Locke’s eyes glinted. “It wasn’t your what? Fault? ”

I gulped. “Well…no?”

“From what I know so far, every single part of what happened was your fault. Try to convince me otherwise, or admit that you were a reckless fool who nearly got himself killed.”

My throat tightened. “That’s not—”

Locke tilted his head, expression cold. “Go on, then. The Voracian was free. What happened then?”

I swallowed. “I tried to run away. I realised I couldn’t… couldn’t use magic against it.”

“No,” Locke said flatly. “You couldn’t.” His gaze was unwavering, cold and assessing, like a scientist watching something small and pathetic squirm under a magnifying glass. He leaned back, his arms crossed. “Then?” 

I forced the words out. “Then… I don’t know why it ran when you came.”

“Oh, I do,” Locke said smoothly. “Voracians are careful hunters. They feed on solitary prey because they are vulnerable while they drain magic. They only attack when they are certain no one else will intervene. It wanted you, and it decided to wait until you were alone again.”

I gulped.

Locke gave me a hard stare. “I had a document I wanted to review today,” he mused, voice light, almost absentminded. “A rather important one, actually. But instead—” His eyes flicked back to me, cold, assessing. “I was alerted that there was some kind of emergency in the Sanctum.”

I fidgeted with the talisman.

“And when we arrived,” Locke continued smoothly, “what did I find?” He tilted his head, gaze dark with something unreadable. “My apprentice—exhausted, barely standing, already covered in blood.”

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

Locke exhaled, slow and deliberate. He looked at me for a long moment, then asked, in a voice so soft it made my skin crawl. “And what happened next, my dear?”

I swallowed hard. “I…well…you know, you were there.”

Locke tilted his head ever so slightly. “Oh, I know very well.” Smooth. Cold. “I want to hear you say it.”

I forced a shrug. Trying to feign nonchalance. “Well,” I waved a hand, “you arrived. Asked where the thing went. I told you, you went after it, then–”

Suddenly, sharply, Locke struck his palm against the desk, the sound cracking through the room like a whip. 

“You sent us in the opposite direction!”

I flinched.

“How many times did I tell you not to lie to me?” he hissed.

I just shrugged, unable to answer.

“How many times?” he repeated.

“I don’t know.”

He scoffed, the sound short, angry, almost mocking. “You don’t know.”

“I don’t,” I said. “Should I have kept a count, or what?”

He was silent. 

I glanced up—he seemed to be frozen.

Shit.

Then he exhaled, slow and sharp. 

When he spoke, his voice was low and dangerously calm. “Do you think it’s funny?” 

I looked away.

“Is this a game to you?” His voice was barely a whisper. “Is your life something to be played with? Thrown away?”

I swallowed, fidgeting awkwardly. 

“Answer me, William,” he said coldly.

“I’m really sorry,” I mumbled, gulping.

“That’s good, but that’s not an answer.”

“I know it was stupid,” I added in a small voice.

“Of course it was,” nodded Locke. “Instead of asking for help, instead of thinking, instead of using the considerable amount of intelligence I know you possess , you let it escalate to the point where you almost died.”  He shook his head, the words almost incredulous. “You almost died tonight, William. Do you even realise that?”

I nodded, feeling quite miserable.

“What else do I need to do for you to see that I’m trying to protect you? I’m trying to keep you safe, but you keep pushing me away. Why?”

A heavy, constricting feeling on my chest.

What could I say?

Locke just stayed silent, and when I looked up, he was looking back at me with an expectant gaze.

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

“That’s still not an answer,” he said.

“I... I don’t know. I don’t want to push you away... really, I don’t—please...”

His voice was cutting. “You didn’t just make a mistake,” he said. “You didn’t just miscalculate, or act recklessly, or take a foolish risk.” He leaned forward, eyes dark and piercing. “You made a choice. You looked me in the face and chose to lie.”

I swallowed hard, staring at the floor

Locke exhaled slowly, deliberately. “Tell me, William—what should I do with someone who looks me in the eye and lies to me?”

My mind was blank.

He sat in silence, unmoving, staring at me. 

“Well?” he urged.

“I don’t… I just… I just didn’t want you to die because of my mistake.”

For a fleeting moment Locke’s face seemed softer. Then it was— gone . “So you decided it would be better if you died instead?”

“I… I didn’t think it through.”

“Clearly,” he scoffed, leaning a bit forward. “You thought you had any chance? You are young. Untrained. Undisciplined. You have power, yes, but no control. No foresight. No understanding of what you are doing.” His eyes were cold, unreadable. “I will not tolerate dishonesty.”

Silence. Thick. Suffocating.

Then— “Go to bed,” he said, voice cold and final. “We will discuss this tomorrow.”

What?

I glanced up, my hands trembling at my sides. 

“But–”

“Sleep,” said Locke, turning away.

He wasn’t even looking at me. He was done with me. The realization left a sharp, twisting ache in my chest and I gripped my own wrist, nails digging into my skin.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t stand up, couldn’t walk away.

Locke’s eyes flicked back to me, sharp and knowing. He tilted his head. “Something to say?”

I swallowed, forcing my back to be a bit straighter. “I just– Please don’t…Please don’t just leave it like this.”

Locke studied me for a long, heavy moment. Then he exhaled, shaking his head. “It’s late,” he said, voice quieter now, but no less firm. “You nearly died tonight. You have to sleep.”

“But–”

“Go to bed, William,” he repeated.

I hesitated. My breath came too quickly. “You said lying to you is intolerable.” My voice was barely above a whisper. “You should—punish me for it.”

Locke’s eyes flicked to mine, his expression unreadable. He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I will.” He tilted his head. “Tomorrow. Now go to–””

“Please.”

Why was I trembling? Why was I close to crying? 

What the fuck is happening to me?

Locke’s gaze swept over me, searching, dissecting. His jaw was tight, his fingers drumming on the desk. 

His voice was low, controlled. “Very well.”

Locke waved. I stood up, trembling slightly, my legs feeling strangely heavy as I followed him through the door leading to his lounge. Inside, the air was a little cooler, though at a gesture from him, yellow flames flared up in the fireplace.

Locke’s steps were measured as he guided me to the center of the room, just in front of the two armchairs by the fire. He stopped there, turning to face me. His eyes were hard—calm, but resolute. “Kneel.”

I went totally, absolutely still. 

I stood tall, chin high, back straight.

Locke waited. 

My breaths were too quick, too shallow—

It is fine…it is fine.

Kneeling doesn’t change who I am.

Who I’m—not. 

And then—Locke’s voice, quiet, calm, commanding: “William.”

I exhaled sharply. 

Then, slowly and a bit awkwardly, I dropped to my knees. 

I shivered as a hand came to my cheek, the touch gentle, almost tender, despite Locke standing so tall, so powerful over me. 

“Breathe,” he said softly, and like in so many meditation sessions, I instinctively followed his words now, taking a deep, shaky breath. “That’s it. Good.”

I swallowed, curling my still trembling hands into fists on my knees. 

“What you did tonight,” murmured Locke, his fingers slipping down to my jaw, caressing my skin, “lying to me was…foolish. You are smarter than that.”

I was staring at the dark carpet in front of my knees.

I didn’t look up as he stepped away, I only saw out of the corner of my eye as he rummaged through one of the cabinets. A drawer being opened—the sound of wood scraping against wood, loud in the tense silence.

When he came back, between his fingers were—something small. A short cane, smooth and polished, dark. He tapped it against his palm.

It looked… unimpressive.

Doesn’t exactly scream ‘terrifying instrument of punishment’ .

For once, I kept my mouth shut. 

He gave me another hard look, then stepped to my side, so close I could feel the heat of his body. His fingers slid into my hair from behind.

“I will not let you put yourself in danger like that again,” he murmured. “You need to learn what happens when you make foolish decisions.”

“I’m sor–” He yanked my head back, one quick, forceful motion. The words caught in my throat. 

“Hush.” His voice was still kind of gentle. I shifted slightly on my knees, and his fist tightened in my hair, tilting my head back until I was staring straight up at the ceiling. I could feel my heartbeat in my ears. “Stick your tongue out,” Locke said. 

What?

I hesitated, biting the inside of my cheek. Locke raised the small cane, tapping it against my lips. “Now, William.”

“But–”

“Silence. Do as you are told.”

My lips were dry as I parted them, feeling so strange, so stupid, so mortified . My breath came in uneven gasps as I extended my tongue. The air felt so cold. 

Locke only said, “Stay still,” then suddenly the small cane landed with a sharp whack across my tongue, and it was a terrifying instrument of punishment—the sting was immediate, and my body jerked in response, wanting to lean forward, to curl around myself…I couldn’t, because Locke’s fingers in my hair kept me firmly upright. But I closed my mouth, biting my lip, scrunching my face up. 

I’m not good at staying still.

“Open,” ordered Locke.

I hesitated, staring up at him—my head was tilted back, he was kind of upside down, unmovable, unconcerned. 

“Now,” he said, and I obeyed, sticking my tongue out again. “Wider. Good. Keep your hands on your thighs.”

I forced my mouth open further, my tongue trembling. I pressed my palms flat on my thighs, fingers twitching as I tried to brace myself, as I tried to keep still–

A sharp, hissing sound in the air, and another line of hot pain across my tongue, and I yelped, closing my mouth, trying to pull away–

“No,” snapped Locke. “Stay still. Keep your tongue out.”

“But–”

“Out.”

Glaring at him, I obeyed. 

The cane came down again, and I closed my eyes, willing my body to stay still. Then again, and again–

Locke made a displeased sound as my body jerked, and my mouth slammed shut as I instinctively pulled away from the sting.

His fingers tightened in my hair painfully. “Keep your tongue out.”

I tried to blink away the tears from my eyes as I obeyed. 

It wasn’t even as horribly painful—the cane was heavy, but small, flexible, and Locke was careful with it—but  the whole situation, the carpet beneath my knees, Locke above me, his fingers in my hair, the position where he held me with one hand, effortlessly—

The cane came down again, and fuck , it was painful, burning, and my fingers curled into fists as I tried to stay still, my eyes squeezed shut. Another strike, and I let out a strained moan. Another, and the tears began to sting at the corners of my eyes.

“Focus,” murmured Locke. “You are getting only ten, but we are starting over every time when you don’t keep the position.”

Another strike. Every nerve in my body seemed to be alive, too alive, and I tried to keep my tongue out, but—

Another, and I jerked so hard Locke had to step forward a bit, pushing his knee into my back, keeping me flat against his thigh.

“I said keep your tongue out,” he growled.

I pushed it out, trembling, trying desperately to hold still. I forced my eyes open as the cane landed again.

Shit shit shit.

Locke’s fingers in my hair kept me in place, but he also spread his fingers, drawing small circles into my skull… my hand trembled and my neck hurt as I tried to keep upright, tried to keep my mouth open, my tongue far out…

The cane landed again and again and again. 

“Focus,” Locke murmured, his tone steady. “Keep the position. We are almost halfway.”

But it was instinctive, how my tongue jerked back, the pain and the heat building, and I groaned, wanting to pull away, wanting to hide, wanting to curl against him and stay there forever—

“Out,” Locke commanded.

I didn’t have the willpower to argue. I forced myself to open my mouth again, tongue trembling and sore. 

I was beginning to feel lightheaded.

He held me with such an ease.

A small hiss in the air, then the crack on my tongue was actually silent. The pain, now deeper, bigger, made me gasp. 

Just stay still.

But it was hard to breathe as the cane landed again and again…

“Seven,” murmured Locke. “Stay still.”

I clenched my fists harder against my thighs, biting back a whimper. 

Throbbing, burning pain.

I was trembling all over now.

Another strike—and no, fuck no , my tongue jerked back, my hand flying up to Locke’s wrist which held my hair, trying to…to push him away? To cling into him?

Locke’s thumb caressed my hand, then gently pushed it away. 

“I told you to stay in position,” he said quietly.

A hard inhale. A sob, as I breathed out. “I c—can’t.”

His fingers kneaded into my hair, soft and grounding, but his voice was cold as he spoke. “You can. Now, William.”

I tried to shake my head, but his fingers tightened in my hair, keeping me steady. 

“I can’t…” My voice was small, panting.

“You can. Put your hands behind your back.” 

I exhaled shakily, my whole body tense, aching, as I grabbed onto my wrists behind my lower back. 

“Good,” murmured Locke. “Come on. Open your mouth. Nice. We are not stopping until you have learned your lesson.”

I obeyed with a shaky breath. 

His hands in my hair.

A long, ragged breath.

Pain.

I felt small, but the world was small too, just the flickering light of the fireplace around Locke’s dark hair, just the relentless calm with which he held me, just the pain. Obedience .

“Stay still,” murmured Locke.

More pain.

My nerves on fire, my body trembling.

A dissatisfied growl as I pulled my tongue back again.

A choked sob. He helped me back into position, and I wanted to curl up, to scream—

Wanted to be good. 

I obeyed, slowly, shakily.

Couldn’t stop the tears.

 

Felt like hours. Forcing myself to obey, to hold still, to keep my tongue out no matter how much it burned, no matter how raw and swollen it felt, my whole body trembling with the effort.

Locke probably overlooked a few involuntary flinches of my tongue, otherwise we could have been there until the end of time. 

The last strike landed heavily. Sharp, searing, final.

Locke’s fingers curled under my chin, forcing my gaze to his. His expression was calm, unwavering, utterly composed.

“Perhaps now,” he murmured, “you will think before you lie to me again.”

I fell forward, nodding and nodding again, unable to speak as I sobbed.

Locke caught me, strong hands on my back, around my shoulders, firm, steady.

For a moment, he just held me.

Then he let out a slow breath, his hand stroking down my back in steady, grounding motions. “It’s done,” he murmured. “You took your punishment well.”

Shooting sounds. Hands around me. 

“Breathe.”

Everything was too raw—my tongue burned, my limbs ached, my mind floated.

I tried to nod again, tried to breathe.

Locke shifted slightly, adjusting his grip. He guided me upright, keeping a hand on my shoulder as he led me away.

His bedroom.

His bath.

The sound of water. The scent of herbs. The quiet certainty of Locke beside me.

His hands remained steady, firm but careful as he eased me down onto the edge of the tub. The warmth of the rising steam curled around me.

“Arms up.”

I obeyed without thinking, letting him pull down my shirt. 

The water was warm. Safe.

Locke knelt beside the tub, rolling up his sleeves. His fingers skimmed over my hair, my neck, tracing the edge of my jaw before resting beneath my chin.

“Look at me.”

I blinked up at him.

“I know it was a long day,” he murmured. “What you did was so…I don’t even have words for it anymore. But… when we found you… I thought you were already dead, William. I don’t ever want you to scare me like that again. Especially not in a situation that could have been avoided. I could have helped if you had just told me the truth.”

A lump in my throat. I nodded, eyes downcast.

Locke sighed. His hands were gentle as he massaged something into my hair. A flowery scent filled the air, and I rested my head, listening to the small sounds of the water lapping against the sides of the tub. 

My body felt so heavy.

A fire burned beneath my skin—

Fuck.

Locke was so close.

I swallowed hard, trying to shake off the haze in my head. Locke’s fingers brushed my wet hair back, and I caught his gaze, calm and thoughtful and steady.

I shifted in the water, looking away, pulling my knees to my chest.

I raised a hand, and my fingers reached his wrist. He went still as my fingertips grazed the delicate skin. 

“I want…you.”

Silence. 

Then his hand was on my face, thumb tracing the curve of my cheek, gentle, careful. “It’s late,” he said quietly.

I bit the inside of my cheek. “Please,” I whispered.

His voice was gentle. “We need to sleep, William.”

“But–”

“Please don’t argue with me now,” Locke murmured, and though his voice was soft, there was no room for defiance in it.

I exhaled shakily, looking away. “You can simply say you don’t want it,” I mumbled. 

There was a bitter feeling in my throat. 

…Embarrassment.

Locke sighed, his fingers sliding to my shoulders, massaging slowly. “I do,” he said simply.

I looked away, clenching my fists beneath the water. “Then why?”

His fingers curled a little more firmly at my nape, grounding. “You don’t need this right now. You need rest.”

“But I–” I swallowed. 

I’m not going to admit that you are right.

Not even when my limbs are heavy, my head foggy and my tongue still aching.

Locke hummed. “Tomorrow,” he said simply. “Not tonight.”

I let out a somewhat forceful breath (disappointed? relieved?), but in the end, I just leaned my head back and let Locke’s fingers knead the tension from every muscle in my shoulders. 

Chapter 40: Perfect

Summary:

as Locke promised

The sun was shining through the gap in the drawn curtains when I woke up. Locke was lying on his back beside me, breathing steadily—my forehead pressed against his side. When I looked up, he was watching me.

“Good morning,” he murmured, stroking a few curls of hair out of my face.

I yawned, a bit dazed by the fact that we were just lying in bed together. “Good morning,” I muttered. “What time is it?”

“Almost noon,” he answered. 

I propped myself up on my elbow. “And you’re still in bed, almost at noon?” I asked, gasping exaggeratedly in disbelief.

Locke chuckled. “We both needed the rest.” He rolled onto his side to pull me closer. Under the blanket, his body was soft and warm, and I rested my head on his chest, taking a deep breath.

“What are we going to do today?” I asked.

“We have still got some time,” Locke replied. “After lunch, you are going to have sigil practice, and–”

“I only have sigil practice because you say so,” I grumbled. “You could just cancel it today.”

“I could,” Locke shrugged, ignoring my complaint. 

I turned away. “Last night, you said that today…” I grumbled.

Locke grabbed my shoulder and turned me back towards him. His lips were suddenly very close to mine.

“We still have a little time,” he said.

I swallowed, my fingers twitching where they rested against his chest.

“Then are we finally going to–”

Locke hummed, a quiet, considering sound. Then, in a single smooth motion, he rolled on top of me, pressing me into the mattress. His weight settled, solid and inescapable.

Oh.

His gaze was sharp, assessing.

I raised an eyebrow, trying to maintain some semblance of control. “I’ve been waiting for this for so long,” I managed, despite the way my heart was pounding, “it might not even be able to live up to my expectations anymore…”

Locke’s eyes darkened, his lips curling into a half-smile.

“Really?” he said softly, voice low and dangerous. “Is that what you think?”

He kissed me before I could respond. 

This was nothing like the quick, desperate kiss I pressed to his lips during yesterday morning’s training ( it’s unbelievable that it was only yesterday ); this was hard, his mouth claiming mine with such an intensity that made my toes curl. His lips were soft but insistent, overwhelming, and his hands slid into my hair, keeping me close as his mouth moved over mine, slow at first… consuming. Demanding.

His hand caught my wrist, pinning it above my head. My body trembled beneath his, and I tried to breathe, but I already started to feel lightheaded—

When he finally pulled back, my chest was heaving, my mouth open, and I could barely form a coherent thought. Locke’s smile was triumphant, but there was something else in his eyes—a hint of something darker, more possessive.

Then he rolled off me.

“Up,” he said.

“What?” I struggled to process what was happening.

“Get up,” Locke ushered.

I pushed myself up on my elbows.

“ What? ”

“Now.” Locke sat up and practically shoved me out of the bed.

I stood uncertainly. “But... you said…”

He waved aside my concerns. “Strip,” he commanded.

Our eyes met for a moment. Then I reminded myself that this was what is wanted— this is what I still want —and, heart stammering in my chest, heat rising in my cheeks, I reached for the buttons of the shirt. It was one of Locke’s—long and slightly too big, but comfortable. I slipped it down my arms, my fingers trembling slightly as I discarded it to the floor.

Locke sat on the edge of the bed, giving me a reproachful look. I sighed as I bent down to grab the shirt and tossed it onto the nightstand. Locke still seemed dissatisfied, but I just shrugged.

Taking a deep breath, I reached for the waistband of the trousers. My movements were slow, my breathing ragged as my fingers struggled with the string. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen me naked... Yet, I could feel myself blushing as I undid the laces, sliding the fabric down my legs, revealing my bare skin, leaving me completely exposed.

Locke’s eyes slept over me slowly, his gaze calm, controlled. I fidgeted with the talisman, wanting to cover myself, but also feeling like that would just draw attention to the fact that I felt— defenseless?

“Stop that,” Locke ordered, voice low and sharp, his eyes snapping to my talisman. “Put your hands behind your back.”

I compiled slowly. His gaze on my body felt like a physical sensation, crawling over my skin, making the air thicker, heavier.

“Good,” he murmured. I averted my eyes, staring at his bare feet on the dark blue carpet. I still could feel his gaze on me. “Spread your legs.”

I felt my cheeks blushing as I obeyed.

Also, there was a tight heat deep in my stomach, hot and sweet and intense, and I was afraid to glance down at myself—knowing I was already hard.

“Wider,” whispered Locke.

I shifted my legs more apart, wanting to squirm, trying to steady my breath.

“Stay still.” His voice was low and smooth.

The silence stretched on, my body tense with the need to move, but I held myself in place as ordered, biting my lip, digging my nails into my palms behind my back. 

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Locke spoke again, his voice soft but commanding. “Come here.”

It was just two small steps, and I was between his spread knees.

Locke reached up, and his fingers slowly tracing along my jawline, down to my neck, brushing over my nipples, my flank, my hips. 

“Turn around,” he whispered.

His fingers grazed my arms. My bottom. My thighs.

Then a soft caress on my wrist. He adjusted my hands so that my palms were touching the opposite forearm—then a mild brush of magic, and something curled around my wrists—

I flinched, but Locke made a soothing sound and placed his fingers over mine. Things that felt like ropes curved around my arms, not painful but tight.

I wanted to speak, to ask what these things were, just to ease the tension—but it was obvious, so instead I simply closed my eyes and tried to breathe evenly as the magical ropes tightened around my wrists.

“If it’s too tight, if it hurts, you speak up immediately,” Locke commanded, and placed his hands on my hips to turn me back towards him.

I nodded, dazed.

“Kneel,” murmured Locke.

Gulping, I did. The carpet was soft beneath my knees, and I was strongly aware of how naked I was. My heart was pounding, and I kept my eyes on Locke’s knees, clad in black pants, slightly spread, easy, comfortable. 

I tried not to fidget, but his gaze was still so heavy on me, and I shifted my weight from one leg to another, wiggling my toes, curling my fingers—

Slowly, he lifted a hand, and his fingers ghosted over my cheek, light, deliberate. Traced along my jaw, down the column of my throat—I swallowed, and his fingers followed the movement. I hung my head, feeling my cheeks blush. 

With my hands bound behind my back, I had no way to stop him, no way to brace myself, to do anything but kneel and let him touch me however he pleased.

My breath hitched as he trailed his fingers back up, brushing over my jaw, my lips— 

I clenched my fingers where they were bound behind my back, desperate for something to hold on to.

His other hand joined the first, cupping my chin, tilting my face up. I tried not to resist, my breathing hard, my chest heaving.

His thumb traced over my cheekbone, then down, back to my jaw.

“This,” he murmured, “is a good look for you.”

My cheeks burned. “Fuck you.” 

His expression didn’t change, but his eyes darkened…the faintest flicker of amusement in his gaze vanishing into something sharper, colder.

“Is that how you want to talk to me?” he asked, his voice low, almost casual. I bit my lip. Then, slowly, he dragged his thumb across my lower lip.

I flinched. Not away—just a tiny, instinctive movement, like my body wasn’t sure whether to lean in or pull back.

His eyes darkened. “Open,” he said softly.

I took a deep breath. My whole body felt strange, overwhelmed, tense, my skin prickling, my blood too hot. My legs started to feel strange under my weight. 

I swallowed, lips parting just slightly—Locke pressed his thumb more firmly against my lip, coaxing my mouth open further. I let out a slow, shuddering breath as he slipped two fingers past my lips, pressing down gently on my tongue.

I tried to swallow, but I couldn’t. 

“Good,” he murmured, leaning forward a bit. “You should be more careful with that sharp little tongue of yours. If you can’t control it…” His fingers pressed down just a little harder, and I made a small, involuntary sound at the dull pain of yesterday’s punishment. “Then I will do it for you.”

I didn’t move. It wasn’t exactly painful, the slight pressure of his fingers on my tongue, more like a strange, tender feeling, a low throb—

Then he pulled his fingers out with a satisfied smirk as I tried to catch my breath. 

“Come closer,” he murmured, spreading his legs wider. 

I wiggled forward, between his knees, gulping, glancing up at him. My voice was a bit hoarse as I spoke. “Why are you still dressed?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Because I don’t need to be undressed to teach you your place.” His fingers, which had just held my tongue, now rested lightly on my jaw. Like a silent command. Stay in position. Listen. “Well…” Locke sighed, his hand pulling away from my jaw as he leaned back, propping himself up on the bed. His eyes never left me, the smirk on his lips deepening. “You can loosen my trousers.”

I moved instinctively, my body reacting, reaching up—at least I wanted to reach up, but only managed to jerk my shoulders, the restraints around my wrists keeping my hands firmly behind my back. My chest tightened in frustration as I clenched my fists.

Locke’s gaze was unshakable, calm and smug, as he watched me. “Struggling?” he asked, voice thick with amusement. “Did you think you would get to do things on your terms?”

I glared at him, my teeth gritting. 

“You are charming like this, you know,” he continued in a low voice, his gaze sweeping over me. 

I huffed. “Maybe I could do something more than just being a charming sight, couldn’t I?”

Locke tilted his head slightly, his lips curling into a knowing smirk. “Well, could you? I’m waiting.”

I fidgeted awkwardly. Took a deep breath. Clenched, then unclenched my fists. 

Does he expect me to use my teeth?

Well, he could wait for that.

I took another deep breath. My wrists were tied to my forearms, but my fingers could move freely. I concentrated on a spell, weaving my fingers carefully into the magic.

A quiet hum of power.

A faint shift of air, and then—Locke’s trousers came undone, the buttons popping open with a quick, almost imperceptible movement.

Locke froze, his gaze flicking down to his trousers, then slowly back up to meet my eyes. His expression was unreadable for a moment.

“Well, well,” Locke murmured, his voice a low growl of amusement, a dangerous gleam flashing in his eyes. “Cheeky little brat.”

“I did what you wanted,” I gasped as his hand shot out, gripping my chin.

“Spread your legs,” he whispered, leaning forward.

“What–?” 

His feet nudged my knees apart, his movements slow, deliberate.

He leaned in close, his breath warm against my ear. “That’s how you would like to play?”

“I’m not–”

His foot slid forward, between my legs, up to my groin. He pressed his sole firm against me, and I made a sound, high and involuntary, my body betraying me as I tried to squirm away. His other hand shot out, grabbing the back of my neck, holding me completely in place, my body rigid under his control.

“Easy now,” Locke murmured, his voice smooth and dark. “You can stop squirming. You are not going anywhere.”

I groaned as I continued to struggle, instinctively trying to free myself. But Locke’s hold on me remained unyielding, and his foot pressed down harder, the pressure building painfully against me.

I yelped, the sound sharp, high-pitched, a mix of pain and frustration.

Locke leaned in, his breath hot against my ear. “We can do this in two ways. One option is that we continue what we started; what you asked for.” His words lingered. “Or, if you keep resisting, I will be more than happy to spank you, then have you stand in the corner until lunch.” He let that hang in the air too, his foot pressing down a little more firmly. I couldn’t help the high, pained moan that slipped from my lips. My eyes squeezed shut. 

“Well?” He prompted, his voice turning light, almost casual, as he moved his foot around a bit. I bit into my lip, hard. “What do you think?”

I managed something like a strained, desperate “Uhgn.”

Locke sighed, a deep, disappointed sound, as though my inability to speak clearly had frustrated him. 

His foot and hands moved away, and I almost staggered from the sudden emptiness, the loss of pressure leaving my body trembling, exposed. I gasped for air, clenching my fists behind my back, biting my lip again to ground myself.

I could feel the weight of his eyes on me, assessing, watching.

“Please,” I gasped, “just—please. Sorry.”

He sighed again, reaching out, hooking a finger below my chin and lifting my face up. “It’s all right,” he said quietly. “I’m not angry. Will you behave?”

“Yes,” I nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes.”

“All right,” he said.

Then his hands reached for his trousers, where my spell undid the buttons and laces. I couldn’t move, not even blink, as he slipped his hand under his trousers, and, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, took his cock out.

I swallowed hard.

“Lean forward,” he said quietly. “Like that. Good. I’m going to hold you.”

His fingers curled tight in my hair, pulling at the roots, tilting my head back a bit. Not enough to truly hurt—but enough that I felt it, enough that I couldn’t move.

“You can be so difficult,” he murmured, and his other hand closed around himself, his fingers moving slowly, carefully. He was hard too. “Even now. Even when you are desperate for this.”

I tried to swallow, but it was hard with how he held me. He gave a slight tug, and my scalp burned with it. 

“You fight everything,” he mused. “Even what you want.”

I clenched my jaw, my fingers curling into fists, my muscles straining against the effort of holding still—I wanted to move, to press closer, to take—

“Open,” said Locke.

Heat, sharp and shivery. My lips parted.

“There’s a good boy,” murmured Locke.

I could feel a flush creeping up my neck. Fuck . 

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” “Locke’s fingers spread out in my hair, rubbing slow circles into my scalp. “Now, be still.”

I shuddered, my breath coming fast, fingers digging into my forearms behind my back as Locke guided me forward.

“There you go,” he whispered, and my lips closed around him, hot and heavier than I expected, tasting a bit like soap.

I took a deep, shuddering breath, and tried to inch forward a bit. Locke kept his hand firm in my hair, but let me. He let me move my mouth around, to swirl my tongue, to run it over his sensitive underside. 

“Patience,” he murmured, and I pulled back, glancing up at him. His face was relaxed, and he was breathing faster than usual. “Take a deep breath for me. Good. Back.”

He guided me back, his fingers firm in my hair. “I want you to start by relaxing your mouth. Take it easy. Get comfortable. Watch your teeth.”

I tried to obey, opening my mouth wider, sucking gently. He gave a small sound, satisfied, so I kept sucking, my hands clenching behind my back, my knees trembling.

“Good,” murmured Locke. His fingers tightened, keeping me in place. “Breathe through your nose. Now. That’s it. I want you to use your tongue, just softly, to trace along the tip. Slow circles.”

I moaned, and moved my tongue, still sore, as he instructed. 

It was all so slow, so delicate.

Almost soft.

I couldn’t use my hands, not to steady myself, not to touch him, not to touch myself—I tried to just concentrate on him, the heavy feeling on my tongue, his taste, his smell, his breathing, as it got deeper and deeper…

I closed my eyes and moaned.

It was almost soothing, kneeling there, in front of Locke, ignoring all the discomfort, just pleasuring him—

His fingers tightened in my hair. “I’m going to guide you a little deeper now,” he said, and my stomach flipped at how raw his voice sounded. “Just relax. Breathe.”

And he pulled me forward, firmly, as his cock slid over my tongue, deeper, deeper, until it touched my throat and I gave a deep, rasping groan, my throat closing on a spasm, and I tried to jerk away, gagging, my mouth flooded with saliva–

Locke didn’t let me move.

Didn’t let me pull back, didn’t let me move at all, didn’t let me breathe.

His grip in my hair was unrelenting, and now his other hand was pressing firm against the back of my neck, too, keeping me exactly where he wanted. 

Contained. 

Controlled.

My nails were digging deep into my forearms as I fought against the urge to pull away, to resist. My throat tightened, my chest heaving for air—

“Good,” Locke murmured, his voice deep and a bit hoarse. “Stay there. You can take it.”

I gave a small, protesting sound, gagging, my eyes watering.

“Breathe through your nose. Come on. Breathe. That’s it.”

My lungs stuttered on the inhale, my throat protesting, painful, my body screaming to get away. I made a choked noise, then another—

And Locke just held me there.

“Shh.” His thumb stroked a slow circle against my scalp. “You are doing so well. Relax.”

I whined around him— relax, what the fuck —my body tensed so tight it ached.

“Beautiful,” Locke murmured, his voice impossibly soft. “A quick break, all right?”

He let his grip loosen, and I yanked myself back, gasping for air, my lips full of saliva, and his fingers tightened again, tilting my head back a bit.

“Breathe,” he murmured. “You are beautiful.”

Heat, pleasure, frustration—everything tangled together, sharp and overwhelming.

“Back,” said Locke.

He forced me down. 

No hesitation, no gentleness.

A deep heat between my legs. My hands jerked, trying to curl around myself, to ease the tension, but I could only dig my fingers into my forearms as I choked, a desperate sound swallowed down as my throat tightened, my body seizing, shaking.

“I have you,” Locke promised. “You can take it. I know you can.”

The primal urge to fight—the unbreakable pleasure of being owned. 

Locke didn’t let me pull back. Didn’t allow it. 

“Stay,” he ordered, voice low and quiet, almost just a breath. 

There were tears streaming down on my face.

I tried—tried to shift, tried to pull back even an inch—but Locke just tightened his grip, yanking me back down with effortless strength. “No. You don’t stop until I say so.”

A choked, broken noise. Heat flooding through my veins. Every nerve in my body alight. 

“Shh.” The vibrations of his voice sinking deep into my bones. “You are so beautiful like this. So perfect.”

I whined, my mind dizzy with pleasure.

“Look at me,” said Locke.

I tried, opening my eyes—my vision slightly blurred—blinking, but it was a weird angle, and he guided me, tilting my head to the side, so I could feel the tip of his cock grinding against my throat—

I made a high noise, keening. Our eyes met.

Dark. Steady. Completely, utterly in control.

“Good boy,” Locke murmured. “You can take a little more.”

And he started to move.

Kept my head in place.

The pace was fast and relentless, in, out, in, out.

“Relax,” he said, and somewhere deep within the fog in my mind, I could realise that his voice was no longer calm or smooth. “Breathe,” he said, though he was also gasping for air.

In and out. In and out.

I tried to suck, tried to use my tongue, but mostly I just tried to keep my mouth open, tried to stay upright, tried not to lose my mind.

In and out.

“Swallow,” gasped Locke. 

My eyes were closed, my body trembling, my mind a hot mess as heat rushed down my throat.

He withdrew slowly. I gasped for breath, sitting back on my heels, and swallowed again and again, his taste still heavy in my mouth. 

Then he was pulling me up, and a quick rush of magic made the ropes disappear from my wrist, and my legs couldn’t support me but he pulled me up onto his lap, straddling him. Hands on my face, in my hair, on my neck… and we were kissing, his lips hot and hungry, our bodies pressing together. An intense, almost urgent connection. The kiss sharp, almost like a bite. His tongue pushed into my mouth, and he had to wrap an arm around me because I had trouble with staying upright. 

My hand, finally free, moved to my cock. I was so hard I felt like I was going to–

Locke swatted my hand away.

“But–” I gasped.

“No.” He leaned back slightly, his left arm firm around my shoulder, supporting me. His other hand slid up to brush a few strands of hair from my face. My fingers hovered close to my groin, and were quickly slapped away again—but his voice softened as he spoke. “You are being so good for me. Just wait a little longer, all right?”

I nodded silently. He shifted, helped me to climb down from his lap, guided me to lie down. I let my head sink into the pillows, my limbs heavy, my breath ragged. Locke settled next to me.

“I need you to understand something,” he murmured, his fingers tracing slow circles on my chest, his touch light, deliberate. “You were a very good boy today. You listened. You obeyed beautifully.” His thumb brushed over my nipple. “That pleases me.”

I gave a high sound as his thumb continued to rub.

“And because you were so good,” he went on, voice smooth as silk, “I’m going to let you have this.” His other hand moved to my cock, his fingers curled just slightly, his grip a warning as much as it was a promise. “But don’t mistake my kindness for indulgence. This is my decision—mine alone.”

I nodded, my fingers grabbing the sheet beneath me, my knees bending as I tried to stay still.

His eyes flickered, dark and amused. “If you defy me—if you so much as think about being difficult—I will leave you like this. Wanting. Aching. Helpless. Do you understand?”

I nodded vigorously as Locke’s finger ran over my length, first from the tip to the base, then back, grazing his fingers over the skin.

He chuckled. “Gave me a verbal answer, please.”

“Yes, yes, yes. Yes, sir. Thank you. Please–”

His hand started to move faster, and I was already so close, everything sharp and blazing and beautiful, and my hips rose up, arching into his fingers, chasing his touch—

His fingers pinched my nipple as he made a dissatisfied sound. “Down,” he ordered. “Stay still.”

I trembled beneath his touch as he placed his palm on my hip, pushing me flat against the sheet. His fingers were so close… I tried to squirm closer, but he twisted my nipple and I froze, giving a desperate cry.

“Still,” Locke commanded, his voice unwavering.

“But– I can’t—” I rocked my hips, and he had to use both of his hands to grab my wrists and pin them firmly to the mattress. “I need–”

“I’m not here to listen to your whining.”

“But–”

“Should I tie your hands again?” Locke’s voice was quiet, dangerous.

I frowned. “No.”

“Should I leave you like this?” He raised an eyebrow, waiting for my response.

“No. Please,” I said, my voice a little broken now. 

Locke let go of my wrists, one of his hands coming back to my nipple, the other curling around my cock. I squirmed as he squeezed with both.

“So desperate,” he murmured.

I bit my lip, trying to suppress a moan. “Please…”

He chuckled, and leant down to press a quick kiss to my lips. “Oh, William,” he murmured. “You are perfect like this.”

And his hand started to move, hot and soft and hard against me, and I could feel all the muscles tense in my body as he worked me quickly towards an orgasm. 

 

My chest was still rising and falling as Locke settled beside me, arranging the pillows and the blankets around us. 

The world felt fuzzy. Distant.

My body hummed. 

Heat lingered under my skin.

Locke shifted beside me, his body close but not touching, his fingers trailing lazy circles on my shoulder.

I turned my head towards him, my breath still shallow and uneven. His eyes met mine, and slowly, he leaned in, his lips brushing mine softly. I moaned, a quiet sigh slipping from my lips as my fingers curled around the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer.

When we finally pulled apart, Locke’s forehead rested against mine. His breath was steady, almost soothing. “You are perfect,” he murmured. “Perfect.”

I felt my cheeks brushing. “You are not that terrible either,” I whispered.

He chuckled, then cupped my face with both hands and pressed a kiss to my forehead.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Good.”

He stroked down my face. “You can feel many things, you know?” he said quietly. “You are allowed to be vulnerable.”

“I…” I swallowed. “I know.”

He let out a soft sigh, brushing his thumb over my cheek one last time.

The silence that followed felt oddly comfortable. 

Notes:

You all and your comments are amazing. Thank you so much for being here <3

...I’ve been thinking. I originally planned this whole story to be just some magical sex, but somewhere along the way, the plot completely took over and I’m not even sure what's happening anymore... but surely it's clear, not just in my head, that everything that happens between them is (kind of) consensual, right?
I guess the last chapter was intense, and honestly, I wanted it to be, but most of the time I’m not too confident in my abilities... so I really hope Locke doesn’t come across as a... pretty terrible abuser? I really hope not.

Chapter 41: One Hundred And Thirteen Steps Down

We were in an unused, old and dusty storeroom, and Locke wanted me to practice sigils of purity. I sat cross-legged on a table, a practice slate propped up on my knees, a piece of chalk balanced between two fingers. 

I had been holding it like that for the last minute, doing absolutely nothing.

Locke stood over me, arms crossed. “Are you planning to start sometime today?”

I sighed, maybe a bit too dramatically, and tapped the chalk against the slate. “I’m thinking.”

“You are stalling.”

“I am thinking,” I repeated, twirling the chalk around. Locke just stared as I continued, “See, here’s the thing. We both know I’m terrible at this. So maybe it’s a little pointless to keep—”

“Will.”

 “—sitting here when we could be doing literally anything else, like—”

“ Draw ,” Locke said, voice low.

I tapped the chalk against the slate, narrowing my eyes. “You’re getting that look.”

Locke raised an eyebrow. “What look?”

“The ‘ I am being extremely patient with you and you are squandering it ’ look.”

“Yes,” answered Locke. “You are.”

I rolled my eyes, sitting up straighter. “Fine, fine.” I placed the chalk to the slate, and drew a single stroke. 

Locke waited.

I narrowed my eyes, looking up at him. “You are staring at me.”

“Yes.”

“I can’t work under these conditions.”

He ran a hand down his face, inhaling deeply. “Do you remember,” he started, his voice just a tiny bit strained , “this morning? When you were really good?”

I gulped, but managed a smirk. “Vaguely.”

Locke took a small step closer. “I do.”

I bit my lip, my fingers tightening slightly around the chalk. “Yeah?”

“I am thinking about it now,” Locke continued smoothly, “so that I do not strangle you where you sit.”

My heart was beating a bit fast, but I grinned. “See, that’s not very encouraging…”

“ Draw. ”

Our eyes met for a moment. I tried to glare back, but in the end I just averted my eyes, staring at my empty slate.

“I know like twelve different spells that could clean this room in seconds,” I said, spinning the chalk between my fingers. “Why exactly do I need to use sigils for this?”

Locke just stared ahead. “Because I told you to.”

“But–”

“This is a sigil practice lesson,” he sighed, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“But–”

“And you are an apprentice. I expect you to make the most of your abilities in every branch of magic.”

“There are so many important things we could be focusing on. What are those chambers behind the painting? What was Lysander doing there? Why–”

“Your job is to make progress in your studies. The next step in that is showing me how well you can draw Awilrefn’s purity sigil. Go on.”

I sighed, leaning forward and pressing the chalk to the slate. This sigil was ancient and absolutely useless: it couldn’t be drawn quickly in the air because it consisted of dozens of lines, and it only worked properly if each one was drawn in the right place, at the right angle, and with the right curve. We only practiced it because it was super complicated while its effect was completely harmless. 

And because Locke was an asshole.

I dragged the chalk slowly across the surface. There were lines for cleanliness, for precision, for spotlessness… “This is so inefficient,” I murmured. “A simple incantation could have this whole room gleaming in under ten seconds, but nooo, you want me to draw the magic like a cave-dwelling primitive—

“William.”

I glanced up. “Yes?”

“Shut up and work.”

I huffed, but went back to the drawing. More lines. More lines. Arcs, curved just right. An intersection.

It was almost done… I just added a few adjustments. 

Were they necessary? Probably not.

I drew the last activating lines. 

The sigil lit up, the magic hummed, and— instead of the room cleaning itself, only Locke’s collar smoothed and straightened, crisp and perfect.

A long silence.

Locke stared at me with a blank expression.

I bit my lip.

He continued to stare.

“…What?” I asked, suddenly a little wary.

Locke’s voice was dangerously soft. “Get off the table.”

I hesitated. “Oh, come on–”

“Now.”

My boots hit the floor with a quiet thud. Small clouds of dust rose up, glinting in the faint sunlight. I smoothed down my shirt, resisting the urge to fidget.

Locke took a deep breath, stepping in front of me very slowly. He raised a hand, the tip of his fingers touching my jaw gently. “You are going to draw it again.” His voice was low and calm. “You are going to do it properly.”

I opened my mouth to respond—

“If you speak,” Locke continued, “if you so much as breathe a complaint, I will make sure the next sigil you practice is a thousand repetitions of something so tedious, so excruciatingly dull, you will beg me to let you clean this entire storeroom by hand instead.”

I shut my mouth.

He just stared down at me.

“Are you sure this is about sigils,” I muttered, “and not just just you flexing your authority?”

Locke’s fingers twitched on my chin, his touch deliberate as he tilted my head up with a single, swift motion.

“What a shame,” he murmured, his voice low, “that you are content with being clever enough only to be annoying.”

“I’m not—”

“You have just demonstrated that you can twist a complex sigil with just a few unnecessary lines to suit your whims,” Locke scoffed. “You are clever. Sadly, you are also—lazy. Undisciplined. Disrespectful.”

I gulped. His fingers slipped off my jaw.

“You are going to do it again,” he stated, his tone unwavering. “And you are going to make a thousand copies of the sigil this afternoon. With ink, on parchment. Understood?”

“Yeah, of course,” I murmured.

His gaze didn’t falter, and the silence stretched between us. “Do you think I’m joking?”

I shrugged. “Well, yeah? You can’t actually expect me to–”

He raised a hand to silence me. “Do you want it to be two thousand?”

Shit. “No?”

“Then stop complaining and get to work.”

I huffed, grabbed the chalk, pressing it onto the practice slate quite angrily, and quickly drew the sigil.

The effect was immediate but slow: dust lifted up from the shelves, from the unused tables, and I coughed as the air was full of it; then it gathered into a neat pile in the middle of the floor. 

We watched in silence.

Locke gave me a long, measured look before he finally nodded.

“The lesson is over,” he said, his tone calm but firm. “You know what your task is for this afternoon.”

I couldn’t help myself. “Would it meet your requirements if I used a duplication spell—”

“Don’t even finish that question, please.” Locke interrupted flatly. “If you have time left, clean up your room.”

I frowned. “At least can I use magic for that?”

“No.” 

“But—” 

“What did I say?” Locke’s eyes narrowed slightly.

I sighed dramatically. “You said no.”

“Good.” He nodded approvingly, though his expression remained stern. “Are you familiar with the meaning of that word?”

“No,” I replied defiantly, raising my eyebrow.

Locke just waved a hand. “Get to work. I will see you in the old infirmary after dinner, all right?”

“The old infirmary?” I echoed, perplexed. “Why?”

Locke sighed. “We need to deal with your dreams.”

 

The door creaked silently as I pushed it open. The old infirmary was vast and still, its corners swallowed in shadow. The air was thick with dust and something faintly medicinal, like old herbs and stale potions. There were light-spheres glowing in the sconces, and a bed set up at the centre, sheets white and crisp.

Locke was there, speaking in low tones with the others—Rowland, his arms crossed, his face set; the Councillor of Obscure Mysteries, Khaemt, a very elderly woman whom I had barely seen in the Sanctum until now, her layered robes pooling around her; and a healer, his hands folded neatly in front of him.

I hesitated at the threshold as four pairs of eyes turned toward me.

Magic hummed loudly in my ears as my eyes quickly swept over the scene. Bluish orbs floated in the air, flickering. Next to the bed stood a table, most of which was occupied by a large iron bowl. Beside it, on a brass tray, were…needles. Small vials filled with colourful glowing liquids. A brass syringe, filled with some dark fluid.

The floor around the bed was marked with sigils and runes, their lines glowing. Warding spells. Restraint spells. The kind of magic used to contain something.

I lifted my chin. “Well,” I said, forcing lightness into my voice, “this isn’t ominous at all.”

No one laughed. Locke just raised an eyebrow.

“Come here,” he said.

I didn’t move. “Are we going to acknowledge how creepy this is? Or are we just—”

“Now.”

I sighed and stepped forward. The hush of the room pressed in around me as I neared the bed. The sigils on the floor pulsed faintly against my boots.

Wordlessly, I handed the bundle of parchment I was holding to Locke. The pages were covered in a thousand purity sigils, each flawless, arranged in neat, orderly rows, black ink on the sand-coloured parchment. My right hand was still cramping from the work.

Locke furrowed his brow as he skimmed through the first page. “I told you not to use magic,” he said dryly. “You will repeat this tomorrow.”

“But—”

“Tomorrow.”

“But I drew nearly all of them by hand!” There were only a few times when I’d been frustrated enough to double up a few sigils with a simple spell.

“Tomorrow, you can draw all of them by hand,” Locke shrugged, then stepped away and tossed the work I’d spent nearly five hours on onto the wooden frame of a nearby bed.

When he turned back to me, his face was unreadable, his hands folded neatly behind his back.

“We need to understand your dreams—your connection to the late Councillor Langston, and everything that’s been happening in your mind.” He stepped toward the bed, his eyes scanning the setting before turning back to me. “You can’t just take off the talisman and hope to control your magic.”

“I could try,” I interjected hopefully.

He gave me a sharp look. “We will be closely observing what you are going through. With Councillor Khaemt, we have prepared every possible precaution to ensure that, once the talisman is removed, we can examine the nature of your dreams under the safest conditions.”

“You expect me to sleep under these circumstances?” I snorted.

Locke frowned. “The bed is set up with containment runes to lock in any stray energies while you are asleep. The sheets themselves are made of warded silk. That will help ensure your magic doesn’t cause any... unconscious incidents.”

He pointed to the glowing orbs. “These are aetheric resonators. They allow us to observe the nature and fluctuations of your magic while you sleep.”

I eyed the orbs suspiciously.

Locke gestured toward the healer, who nodded with a small smile. “Master Tamsin helped prepare a few potions that will assist you.” He pointed to a tall, narrow vial containing a swirling pale blue liquid. “This is a tailored sleeping draught to help you fall into a controlled sleep. Not too deep—just enough to guide you into the dreams we need to see.” He lifted a square-shaped bottle. “This is a magical dampener to suppress your power during the night.” Finally, he pointed to a cylinder filled with black liquid. “And this is a lucidity enhancer.”

“Great,” I muttered. “You had quite the eventful afternoon while you had me copying those damn things.”

Locke shot me a dark look, but then just nodded toward the bed. “Sit.”

I rolled my eyes but sat down.

“And what’s he doing here?” I asked, glancing at Rowland.

“I invited him,” answered Locke.

“Why?”

Locke’s fingers twitched at his side. “He is the Councillor of Arcane Defense, he–”

“And what, is he going to defend you against—my dreams?”

Rowland’s arms were still crossed, his jaw tight. He met my gaze without flinching.

“If the need arises,” he said flatly.

“Oh no. This is so terrifying, I’m definitely going to have nightmares now.”

Next to me, Locke heaved a deep sigh. 

Rowland took a slow step forward, his voice low and menacing. “Any apprentice of mine would find themselves quickly in a cell, or next to the flogging post, if they showed that level of disrespect.”

I shivered at his icy tone, but raised my chin. “Luckily, I’m not your apprentice.”

Rowland took a breath, probably to threaten me with some gruesome way of dying, but Locke was faster, sliding between us with a frustrated growl. “Enough.” He turned slightly to Rowland. “He is nervous.”

Rowland didn’t react. Just kept his arms crossed and his jaw locked.

I felt the heat rising to my cheeks. “I’m not–”

Locke spun back toward me. “And you—stop.”

I shut my mouth, swallowing hard. For a long while, he just stared down at me, his eyes sharp, unyielding.

“You are not helping yourself,” Locke said, his voice colder than before. “Even at the Dusk’s first reappearance, it was suspicious that you were nearby. You are dreaming of Lysander Langston—the very man who created the Dusk. Somehow, you stumbled into his hidden chambers.”

He stepped closer, and I leaned back a bit, sitting straighter on the edge of the bed.

“You would do well to cooperate now, because if you are truly connected to the Dusk in any way, you will end up in a cell.”

“But I’m not!” My voice sounded too loud, too desperate in the silence of the old infirmary. “You think I would hurt people? You think I would–”

Locke sighed, raising a hand. “Calm yourself.” His expression softened just slightly, but the edge in his voice didn’t fade. “I’m not saying you are. I’m saying that the events that have happened to you are highly suspicious, and we need to do everything we can to understand them.”

“But–”

“It doesn’t help that you’re keeping secrets and want to handle everything on your own. If you pose a threat–”

“A threat ?” I repeated. “To who ?”

His eyes didn’t waver. “To yourself. To others.”

“That’s bullshit.”

Locke was utterly calm. “Perhaps.”

Only the magic hummed loudly in the deep silence of the infirmary.

Kicked my heel against the floor.

“I want to understand this too,” I mumbled.

“Good,” Locke nodded sharply. He held my eyes for a moment longer, his gaze hard, thoughtful. Then he nodded again, and straightened up with a sigh. “Master Tamsin, the potions, please.”

When did the situation shift from me just having strange dreams to me being a threat?

I sat quietly on the edge of the bed, feeling embarrassingly small and inexperienced, while various potions and spells were being fussed over around me. The healer explained in detail the purpose of each potion he handed me, but I didn’t really pay attention to his words. Locke seemed tense as well. Rowland took a few steps back and watched the events with a scowl. Councillor Khaemt was even further away, silent as ever.

“What will you perceive from the dreams?” I asked, glancing toward the iron bowl filled with water as the healer carefully unsealed the syringe and slid the needle into my upper arm, my skin prickling, warmth spreading through my veins.

Locke glanced towards the bowl, then back to me. His eyes softened a bit. “Dreams are one of the most mysterious aspects of magic. The Mirror will not show your dreams, it cannot—your mind is too complex for such clarity. What it will do is monitor the fluctuations in your magic. How does your magic respond to dreams? How does magic respond to you? It will reveal the traces of emotions, intentions, shifts in your magical essence.”

I swallowed, staying silent.

Locke instructed me to take off my boots. He helped me lie down on the bed. My mind was full of questions and worries, but what bothered me most was how they were all standing— wouldn’t this whole thing be much less creepy if they at least sat down?

But I could already feel the potions starting to cloud and dull my thoughts. 

Locke removed the talisman from around my neck. The small warning stone activated in his pocket, but with a flick of his hand, he silenced it. “You will likely be more aware of your surroundings during the dream than usual. You don’t have to do anything, figure anything out, or make any decisions. Nothing dangerous will happen to you. Just sleep, and we will observe the magic tied to these dreams.”

My voice was slow and hoarse when I spoke. “What if I dream about something completely different?” I mumbled.

“That’s not a problem,” Locke replied, pulling the blanket over me. “Then we will just try again.”

I opened my mouth to say something—like, what a horror it would be if I ended up dreaming about something completely random—but Locke simply said, “Hush now,” and I fell silent, thankfully, before I could say out loud any of the things I most definitely didn’t want to dream about—

But when my eyes closed, I was standing once again between the tall bookshelves.

 

I stepped forward slowly, the air thick with a musty, ancient scent. The shelves stretched upwards into the darkness, the crumbling books barely holding together. The silence was so complete, so unnatural, so… familiar?

My foot barely made a sound as it touched the wooden floor. I could hear my heart pounding in my chest as I walked between the shelves, the books next to me so old their titles were often unreadable on their worn spines.

The corridor with the stone tablets. Runes glowing faintly on the dark stone, the light barely enough to make out the shapes of the fragments scattered on the ground. I stepped carefully over them. 

My breath was shallow, quiet, as I entered the room of bones, shuddering, pulling my cloak tight around me. Ribs, femurs, tibias, skulls—countless bones were stacked high on every shelf, some of them etched with spells I couldn’t comprehend. The whisper of magic was louder here, and grew even more as I stepped closer to the altar. The skull on top gleamed under my touch, dust rising as I ran my fingers over it. As my hand slid into the eye socket, I felt a rush of cold, the touch of centuries-old magic crawling beneath my skin.

My fingers trembled as I pulled away, brushing against the bricks, following the pattern—one on the left, two on the right, three above, and then the seventh on the left. Faint groaning, brick grinding against brick, as the altar shifted, walls and bones moving with an eerie creak as they revealed a dark, narrow staircase leading down into the black.

I stood there for a moment, staring down into the void. The air was suffocatingly still, the darkness absolute. My fingers shook as I reached for the slick, smooth walls of the staircase, and I took the first step—carefully, slowly, down into the darkness.

One foot after the other. The steps were slippery, too narrow, too steep. My fingers searched the walls for purchase as I went deeper into the darkness.

Corridors.

One hundred and thirteen steps down.

The silence was maddening.

I turned left at the bottom. I moved through the dark corridor, keeping my fingertips on the wall, the stone rough against my skin. The door appeared ahead, as it always did, even though it was completely dark, and I raised my hands to weave the spells that would open it. The air felt colder, heavier, and when the door finally groaned open, I–

I stepped through.

I shivered, and suddenly I remembered that I was dreaming—that I was lying in a bed in the old infirmary, soaked in magic and surrounded by protective wards, with three people watching me—

“They won’t perceive anything,” said a voice—a silky murmur from the darkness.

Lysander’s violet cloak emerged from the shadows.

My heart beat faster as I stepped into the vast hall. It was just the same as the last time I’d been here: massive, lined with columns, strangely empty, with a vaulted ceiling that vanished into shadows. In the centre stood the ancient stone table.

“I found your chambers behind your painting,” I told him.

Suddenly, Lysander was right in front of me—his face pale as snow, his eyes ghostly, the irises almost indistinguishable from the whites. He tilted his head slightly. 

“Your Voracian nearly ate me,” I added.

He blinked slowly, then waved a languid hand. “The Voracian can feed on magic through the bodies of magicians. It can shift its form, slip through shadows. All very useful traits—ones the Dusk has made good use of.” 

“You used those creatures to create the Dusk?”

“Not all of them. Not all proved useful.”

“But you created the Dusk here…” I gestured toward the stone table.

“There were limits to how far I could push my experiments within the Sanctum,” he said. His voice sounded soft, pensive. “The Dusk is the darkest creature in existence. The greatest, yes—but also the darkest.”

I stared at him. “Why are we here? Where are we, even?”

Lysander’s eyes glimmered with a hint of sadness in the dark. “That’s something you will have to figure out on your own.”

And with that said, I was back between the tall bookshelves again.

I let out an irritated breath.

Through the shelves. Past stone tablets. Creepy bones. An altar. Pitch-black stairs and corridors.

I stormed into Lysander’s vast chamber, scowling. He stood close to the stone table, unmoving, eternal. He stood with the stillness of someone who had all the time in the world.

Well, technically…

“You’re dead,” I told him.

“Yes,” he replied simply.

“Then how is it that we’re having this conversation?”

“Magic is a mysterious thing,” he replied softly. His cloak stirred gently. He raised his head and looked me in the eye. “Have you figured out where we are?”

“Maybe it’d be simpler if you just told me,” I muttered.

“You have power,” he said quietly, stepping towards the table.

“Yeah,” I shrugged. My hand rose instinctively  toward the talisman, but I wasn’t wearing it. Lysander’s eyes followed the gesture.

“You don’t understand.” He leaned forward and pressed both hands onto the runes carved into the table. They glowed faintly, but nothing else happened. The chamber was silent. “What you fear is not power—it is what you might become when you stop fearing it.”

I furrowed. “What?”

“Oh, my boy.” The faintly glowing runes on the ancient stone table bathed his wrinkled face and lifeless eyes in an eerie light. “Do use your brain.”

And so I was back between the high shelves again.

Fuck.

For a moment, I buried my head in my hands, sighing deeply, exhausted and angry.

Then again: bookshelves. Stone tablets. Bones. 

I slammed my hand against the bricks with more force than needed, and the passage opened. Stairs. One misstep, and I almost slipped down, cursing under my breath. One hundred and thirteen steps. The corridor stretched long and hollow. A quick spell, and the door swung open.

Lysander stood to the side, next to a column, almost lost in the darkness. One of his pale, wrinkled hands was raised, resting on the column. His cloak rippled around him, filling the space with far more purple than should have been possible.

Was that shade of purple fashionable in your time?

But I decided to stay silent.

I slowly walked over to him, my footsteps echoing through the empty hall. Lysander stared thoughtfully at a crack in the massive stone column. 

“So…” I said slowly. “At the Sanctum, in your secret chambers, you conducted all kinds of experiments. Then, when things—your experiments—got too dangerous, you moved here. Here, you created the Dusk, saving the kingdom, bringing glory to the magicians, and so forth. Am I right?”

“The Dusk brought glory to the magicians,” he nodded.

“Only you forgot to announce to the world that you used all kinds of dark magic to create it?”

Lysander glanced at me from the corner of his eye. “The Dusk is magnificent. It’s a fusion of forces, of abilities, that we wouldn’t dare even dream of controlling.”

Lysander didn’t take his eyes off me, and I shuddered.

“It must be destroyed,” he added, and in a sudden movement, slammed his fist into the column. The stone cracked with a small sound. 

I flinched back. 

Lysander’s hand was ruined—skin split wide, blood pouring down his wrist, bones jagged and glinting white beneath the shredded flesh.

“The Dusk is magnificent,” he repeated softly. I stared at him, my heart beating so fast. “Yes, it is. But you still don’t understand.”

I didn’t dare to open my mouth as he raised up his mangled hand and began to push the bones back to their places, slowly, methodically. 

“Blood magic,” he said, his voice gentle, warm.

“Yeah, I thought so,” I muttered, gulping.

“I spent decades researching blood magic,” he murmured, his voice low echoing slightly in the chamber.. “To create the Dusk, at first. But the research was so important, opened so many possibilities in magical reality…”

“What?” I choked out as his finger twitched, and with a sickening squelch, he reached for the exposed tendons and pulled them back into their sockets. 

“The river carves mountains not by force, but by patience,” said Lysander, his gaze fixed on the grotesque task before him. “You thrash against the current, and wonder why you drown.”

“What are you talking about?” 

He turned his eyes on me then—cold, empty, dead. “What do you think—why is it that magic doesn’t exist in this place?”

“There was magic up there,” I gestured behind me. “And I opened this door with magic.”

Lysander’s gaze narrowed, his expression unreadable. “You are dreaming.” He stepped closer, his voice low and deliberate. “Each of your steps could be in a different time than the one before. So I ask you again: what do you think—why is it that magic doesn’t exist in this place?”

“How the hell would I–”

Lysander shot me a look of quiet disappointment.

Waved a hand, and I was back between the tall bookshelves.

I let out an angry shout.

I wanted to go back, all the way down the familiar path, into the massive chamber—to kill Lysander. My heart pounded, my fists clenched as I took a few heavy steps forward—

Then I remembered that Lysander had been dead for ages.

And I was just dreaming.

Fuck Lysander, I thought, and I spun on my heel.

There were more shelves in the opposite direction. Huge, ceiling-high shelves as far as the eye could see. Filled with books.

What do you think, why is it that magic doesn’t exist in this place?

I inhaled sharply as I took a slow step forward, looking around.

Notes:

Thank you for all your feedback and reassurance, you are wonderful <3

Chapter 42: The Broken Table

Notes:

I've never done this before, but: there are some potentially disturbing themes towards the very end of this chapter. Please check the end notes for more details if you feel like you need a warning before proceeding <3

I woke with a sharp gasp, sitting up in the bed, throwing the blanket aside.

“I know where it is,” I said, my voice rough and urgent. “It’s in the Lost Library. We have to go.”

The old infirmary was quiet and dimly lit. The healer sat in a chair, seemingly only half-awake; Councillor Khaemt stood silently a little farther away; and Locke and Rowland were standing by the iron bowl, looking like they had just paused a hushed conversation.

I saw them exchange questioning glances as I tried to climb out of bed—then Locke was at my side, gently guiding me back down onto the mattress.

I sat, but tried to reach for my boots.

“We have to–”

Locke leaned down and pulled my boots just out of reach. “It’s still the middle of the night,” he said.

“It’s in the Lost Library,” I said. “The place I  dreamt about. I memorised the aisle marker—8312.5 to 8320.1, The Geometry of Magical Absence , we can go and find it…we should write the number down…”

Locke seemed troubled, thoughtful, as he stepped back to the iron bowl. “There was no indication of malevolent influence,” he said quietly. “No flare of corrupted aether, no external intrusion. Your magic remained stable. Fractured, yes—but not volatile.”

I stared at them.

“What exactly were you expecting? External intrusion? ” My gaze slid to Rowland’s grim face, then back to Locke’s deeply contemplative expression. “That someone’s using my dreams to… I don’t know, to manipulate me? That I’m somehow connected to some dark magic? Or what, maybe the Dusk is controlling my mind through my dreams? What the hell?”

“Compose yourself,” grunted Rowland. 

The healer was awake now, standing up. 

I took a deep breath, and exhaled sharply. “You don’t understand. Lysander wants to show us something, something about the Dusk. He said… he said things like the Dusk is magnificent, but he also said it must be destroyed. Maybe he can help, and we are just sitting here, doing nothing…”

Rowland looked angry, though I had no idea what might have upset him this time.

Maybe his face just always looks like that.

Locke was still watching me with a troubled expression.

In the end, it was the healer who spoke first. “Lie back down, please,” he said. “I need to examine you.”

I glared at him as he stepped closer. “I’m fine, thanks. How about we stop just sitting here and actually–”

“Do as you are told.” Locke’s voice was tired but sharp.

I glared at him, too, but tossed my legs up onto the mattress and sank back onto the pillow with a frustrated sigh.

The healer’s hands moved over me, his fingers glowing faintly as he worked his spells. I could feel the soft pull of his magic as he tested my vitals, gauging the stability of my magic. I resisted the urge to push him away, my hands curling into fists at my sides as I stared at the ceiling. 

“There’s no sign of instability,” the healer murmured a few frustrating minutes later, his voice calm but clinical. “Your magic is clean. You are not in immediate danger.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“Be careful. Some of the potions you've taken are still affecting you. Use your strength with caution.”

I rolled my eyes, ignoring his disapproving expression as I sat up. “So, when do we leave?”

“As far as I know, you are forbidden to leave the Sanctum,” Rowland growled at me. 

I wanted to throw that heavy-looking iron bowl at him. “What’s the damn point of all this fuss…” I waved vaguely around, “if we are not going to do anything? This is our chance to find something out, to finally learn–”

“William, it’s the middle of the night,” Locke said quietly. “Councillor Aman and his team have been working for a long time on mapping and understanding the Lost Library. It’s an extremely lengthy and meticulous task. We can’t just barge in. We will message him in the morning and see what he suggests. Until then, try to recall what happened in your dream.”

For a while, I tried to stubbornly hold Locke’s gaze, but his expression was too patient, too understanding. I eventually lowered my eyes. “I was in that place I’ve dreamed of before.” my voice was bored and flat. “I walked along the route, and Lysander was waiting for me at the end, in that huge chamber where we’ve met before. He said…” The memories already started to fade. “I don’t know, he was speaking a bit incoherently. He said he had experimented here, but eventually left for those places beneath the Lost Library. That's where he created the Dusk. He talked about how wonderful the Dusk is, and—how it must be destroyed. And that the rivers are slowly carving through the mountains? Then he was explaining how his research on blood magic opened up so many possibilities... it didn’t really make sense. I don’t know what kind of man Lysander was in life, but as a dead person, he’s not exactly a good conversation partner…”

Locke exchanged another curious glance with Rowland.

“What?” I said. 

“You have to admit,” Locke said slowly, “this situation is…worrying.”

I bit my lip, shrugging.

Locke let out a slow sigh and turned back to me, his eyes scanning me from head to toe as I sat on the edge of the bed. Suddenly, I felt an intense urge to smooth the messy strands of hair from my face. I twisted one of the strands around my finger. Eventually, Locke stepped beside me without a word and quietly put the talisman back around my neck. I swallowed hard, but I didn’t say anything.

“You can come with us to the Lost Library tomorrow,” he said finally. “But you are not to leave my sight for a second. Is that clear?”

I nodded quickly. “Of course.”

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Rowland grumbled.

“Neither do I,” Locke replied with a shrug. “But these are his dreams. He has the right to find out what they mean.”

“As long as he doesn’t bring the Dusk to our doorstep,” Rowland muttered.

“I have nothing to do with the Dusk!” I snapped.

“You are forgetting your place again–”

“You would forget yours too if you were constantly being accused of nonsense!”

“Shut up, Will,” Locke interjected. “It’s time to sleep. Put your shoes on.”

They spoke quietly with the healer, and even Councillor Kheamt added something in her surprisingly deep and smooth voice. I didn’t pay attention to them; I just laced up my boots, my movements far rougher than necessary.

Locke escorted me back to my room. He didn’t make any comment on the mess. He stayed while I washed up and changed clothes. He pulled the curtains shut, put the fallen pillows back on the bed.

He wished me good night, and then, as he was leaving, he cast a quick spell to tidy up the room.

 

*

 

The next morning, we traveled to the Lost Library using Auric Dust. 

After breakfast, Locke summoned me to his office. I fidgeted impatiently as he explained that if I disappeared from his sight for even a moment in the library, my remaining eight and a half years as an apprentice would be spent locked away in the Sanctum. I nodded in agreement, not really trying to hide my impatience. He shot me a disapproving look and continued with his threats, while I tried to put on a politely interested expression.

“I won’t run off,” I tried to reassure him.

“I don’t think you understand,” he shook his head. “You need to take this situation very seriously, William.”

“I am taking it seriously…” though I wasn’t sure I’d convinced him.

Auric Dust could only be used outside the protective wards of the Sanctum and the Citadel, so we made our way along the usual route towards the enchanted garden—Lysander Langston’s portrait was guarded by a magical seal.

“Why is it sealed off?” I asked Locke.

“The Councillors are inspecting it to ensure it’s completely safe,” he replied.

“And–”

“As far as I know, they haven’t found anything.”

Rowland came with us, and Councillor Aman was waiting for us at the magically guarded entrance to the Lost Library. I was still light-headed from the effects of the Auric Dust as he led us into the partially collapsed foyer. 

It was enormous and awe-inspiring, even in its current state. The vaulted ceiling supported by columns was so high that I had to tilt my head back just to see the top. Some columns had crumbled, though the debris had been neatly piled to the side. Others seemed to be held together only by sheer luck—or maybe some ancient magic. The walls were etched with carvings, and I recognised a few runes—protection, binding—while others were too worn to read, or entirely unfamiliar.

Our footsteps echoed softly on the marble floor; some parts were cracked, others worn smooth. Dust floated in the air, and the smell of old paper hit me, thick and musty. Massive windows lined the walls, but most looked out onto dark soil now, as the library had long since been buried under ground.

And in every direction, imposing, wide corridors, arched doorways and high passages opened up. Above us, a gallery ran all the way around—not just one, but seven levels high—and as far as the eye could see, every hall, chamber, and room was filled with shelves upon shelves of books.

The long corridor that Councillor Aman led us down was lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves on both sides, and there were even shelves on the ceiling itself. Every few steps, small enchanted holders with flickering flames cast a gentle, warm light across the hallway..

Twisting and turning corridors. We didn’t cross paths with anyone, yet the tiny flames burned steadily in every corner, and there were tables scattered throughout the place, piled with map fragments and rolled parchment scrolls, making it clear the library wasn’t truly abandoned. 

A few stairs, and there were even bookshelves on the stairs, with an aisle marker indicating that the books were about famous stairbuilders of the Harnflaf Era... Councillor Aman was just strolling along like this was his daily commute, but Locke had to tug on my elbow several times to keep me from getting distracted by one of the passageways.

“How big is this place?” I asked, quickening my steps.

“We don’t know,” Councillor Aman replied.

“But... haven’t you been working on this for... quite some time?”

Aman glanced at me as we climbed another staircase. “I understand your awe, apprentice, but remember, this place is a library first and foremost. We study it with respect and methodical care.”

I felt my cheeks flush. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be impatient, Councillor.”

Next to me, Locke scoffed quietly under his breath.

“You are forgiven,” Aman nodded towards me. “You must understand that this library is the largest of all libraries that have ever existed. Certain parts have collapsed, and we often come across doors that we cannot open. Unsealing magically locked doors in a place where magic does not function is no simple task.”

For a moment, I stopped to stare at a shelf that wasn’t made of wood, but rather... it looked as though some dense, cobweb-like material was holding the books in place.

We kept walking, the corridors narrowing and widening at random, until finally we came to a small chamber. Inside, there was a huge table full of blueprints and scattered scrolls. The walls were covered in wide pieces of parchment, all of them filled with detailed drawings of the library’s layout.

“This is our base,” Councillor Aman said to me. “Where we track what has been  mapped so far.”

Aman picked up a few scrolls, taking them to the desk. “We have charted most parts of the first few levels that used to be above ground,” he said. “This part of the library,” he unrolled a scroll, using small, book-shaped metal weights to keep the corners down,  “is around Vault Five or maybe Six, underground. The security assessments are complete, but a detailed analysis and inventory of the collection hasn’t been done yet.” He looked me over with narrowed eyes, his fingers running over the maps. “The section you dreamed about should be somewhere around here.”

I’d wanted to set off right away, but it turned out it wasn’t as simple.

First, they spent ages poring over maps and discussing possible routes. Then Aman summoned—out of nowhere, it seemed—seven librarians to accompany us. They poured over the maps too.

The room was practically crowded now, everyone buried in maps and contemplating different parts of the library—the Scriptory, the Atrium, the Overshelf, the Inkthread Steps—while I stood pressed into a corner, just waiting.

After all, I am patient and well-mannered.

“I’m going to disappear from your sight because a pack of librarians blocks the view,” I muttered to Locke as we finally stepped out of the office. He hushed me, but I caught the flicker of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

It felt strange, walking through the library with such a large escort.

At every turn, I wanted to stop and stare; and at the same time, I wanted to run ahead, to find the place from my dreams as quickly as possible.

And more than anything, I wanted to be alone—without all these people—because whatever Lysander meant to show, he meant to show me .

But we made it in the end.

8312.5 to 8320.1, The Geometry of Magical Absence .

A few more steps, a turn between the shelves, and there it was—the place where my dreams always began: tall shelves on either side, the path ahead empty, dust-covered, still.

There were none of thoss little enchanted flames here, but the librarians had brought light spheres in enchanted holders that could keep the magic alive. The way between the shelves glowed softly, our long shadows dancing on the shelves.

We walked through the towering aisles. Ancient books with crumbling spines flanked me on either side.

Then a narrow passage, and the corridor with the stone tablets. The broken fragments underfoot were just as I remembered them. I stepped over them like I had in my dreams—including the one I’d knocked over one night.

Where the small room full of bones had been, now there was only a blank brick wall.

I stopped uncertainly. “We need to go that way,” I said, pointing towards the wall.

How I wished everyone would stop staring.

But they believed me—more discussions followed. Another hour passed. The librarians were so absorbed in deciphering how to open the mysterious passageway that no one even scolded me for sitting on the edge of an ancient stone tablet.

They had strange tools to determine that the doorway wasn’t sealed with any spell: Instruments made of wood and metal, compass-like things that emitted soft sounds, little hammers they used to tap on the stones, strange round metal objects they moved back and forth in the air. I had no idea what exactly was going on.

Nearly two hours passed when they finally concluded that there was no mystery here at all—the doorway had simply been bricked over, and it would be safe to take the wall down.

I waited with a sigh as they worked. I offered to help, but Locke waved me away.

We stepped quietly into the chamber filled with bones.

“The Shrine of the Bonekeeper,” whispered Aman.

“The what?” I asked.

“An ancient sect,” Aman answered. “They believed in the magical power of bones. They performed human sacrifices.”

The chamber felt increasingly cramped once we’d all squeezed inside.

“Which way now?” Rowland asked. His rasping voice sounded strange, echoing off the skulls.

There was no obvious passage leading out of the chamber. I cleared my throat and stepped up to the altar. Someone tried to stop me as I reached into the skull’s eye socket, but when I pulled out my fingers—now stained black—they quickly withdrew.

My heart pounded in my chest as I touched the seven bricks: one on the left, two on the right, three at the top, and one more on the left.

There was complete silence as the passageway opened.

“Do we really want to go down there?” one of the librarians whispered. A cold draft and the scent of stale air wafted up from the stairwell.

“Step back, apprentice,” said Aman. 

And then it all started over again. Eventually, I went back and sat on the edge of the stone tablet again, because the bone chamber was small, crowded, and honestly a bit creepy. I had no idea what could possibly take so long to examine on a perfectly harmless staircase, but again, nearly an hour passed before Aman finally announced that it was safe to proceed.

Now I understand why it takes months just to figure out how big this place even is.

I had never seen these stairs and corridors before—it was always pitch-dark here in my dreams. But the air had the same stillness, the walls were just as damp and cold. The flames in the librarians’ lanterns flickered, fainter than before, casting ling shadows. My fingers searched the walls for purchase as we descended deeper into the darkness.

Corridors.

One hundred and thirteen steps down.

This time it wasn’t silent: eleven pairs of feet on slick stone steps, whispering cloaks, quiet murmurs.

A long, wide hallway. At the end, a massive door.

Another stop, another half-hour of discussion. One librarian took lengthy notes, another sketched a map, two examined instruments, and the rest were engaged in activities I couldn’t even begin to understand.

Magic didn’t work down here, and when Aman finally pressed the handle on the door, nothing happened.

I sighed, disappointed—now we were going to stand here for another two hours while they came up with a solution.

Surprisingly, it was Rowland who spoke up (and shoved me forward roughly by the shoulder): “Let him try.”

Aman looked at the door thoughtfully. The librarians parted to give me space. Locke gave a cautious nod.

I stepped forward. The doorknob was cool and smooth beneath my fingers. It turned slowly, reluctantly. Then with a soft click, the lock gave way, and the door creaked open with a long, low groan.

We stepped into the hall.

It looked exactly the same as it had in my dreams: vast, lined with towering columns, the ceiling and the corners lost in shadow. Far ahead, at the center of the chamber, stood the large stone table, marked with carvings and stained with the remnants of blood.

Our footsteps echoed as we walked deeper inside.

I felt awkward and avoided everyone’s gaze. Of course, this place must be important. The librarians will surely spend months examine every corner, cataloguing every shadow and taking notes detailed enough to fill another library…

But there was nothing here. The hall was empty. The stone table was empty. The runes had faded with time.

“Do not touch it,” Rowland snapped as I paused beside the table, lost in thought.

I glanced at him—and pressed both my palms against the cold stone.

There was a deep, groaning crack as the table split cleanly down the middle. The halves shifted aside, revealing a staircase leading downward.

Shouts. Locke calling my name. Rowland’s growl.

I hurried down the stairs.

When the others caught up, I stood still, hands pressed to my stomach, frozen in place.

More shouting. A sharp gasp. Grunts behind me.

The smell was thick, rotting, metallic, clinging to the back of my throat.

One of the librarians vomited.

The room beneath the stone table was small and low. Shelves lined the walls, and in the center, tables were scattered around, leaving narrow, labyrinthine pathways open between them.

Every available surface was overflowed with clutter—old books, glass jars, test tube racks, and crumbling scrolls. Jars of ink. Dried herbs and withered plants. Melted candles. In one corner stood a cracked chalkboard, covered in overlapping diagrams of human anatomy, magical sigils, and obscure equations that didn’t seem to follow any known system. I could see a glass tank on a nearby table, clouded with grime, something floating inside it, indistinct and shifting. There were rusty surgical tools scattered on a stained cloth. A mirror. Chains. Mummified remnants of something small. Feathers, bones, and teeth; some arranged carefully into arcane patterns.

The jars held strange liquids—some cloudy, some disturbingly clear, others glowing in unnatural blues, greens, and deep, blood-like crimsons. In the dim light, the faint reflection of something alive seemed to stir within a bigger glass container. Vials were adorned with faded, crude markings. 

And there were bones, twisted and broken. Discarded limbs —flesh and sinew still fresh in places, despite the time. A rusted scalpel lying next to a shattered glass pane, its edges jagged and stained with something darker than blood. 

At the far end of the room, on one of the tables stood tall, cylindrical glass containers. I stepped close before I realised what I was seeing: something curled and pale…its limbs delicate and not quite finished. My eyes swept over the cylinders in horror, unable to look away—a tiny skeleton, barely-human like. A cracked jar, holding a single spine. Mass of tangled limbs, too small, too many. Only a head, hair still floating in the fluid like seaweed, the eyelids half-open. Translucent skin. Shriveled limbs, fingers too long. Sunken chests and twisted spines. Eyes staring into the nothingness.

Fetuses.

And in the middle of it all, a tiny wooden horse sat atop a tower of bloodstained notes.

I backed away fast.

Locke grabbed my upper arm, turned me around, and was persistently pushing me back towards the stairs.

Notes:

So some warning: at the end of this chapter, we find out that Lysander was experimenting on unborn children. The scene is not long or detailed, but might be still a bit disturbing.

Chapter 43: Auric Dust

Notes:

Oh my, I think we are getting close to the end of the story...?
I have been really looking forward to this part. I hope it’s relatively coherent... Will basically just panics for an entire chapter (a long one).
Happy reading!

I was sitting on a bench by the wall, in a tiny side chamber next to the Council’s great hall, kicking at the marble floor in front of me, when the door opened and Sol slipped inside.

I looked up, surprised, as he sat down at the other end of the bench.

“How did you get in here?” I asked.

“I walked in,” he shrugged.

“The guards allowed you?”

“I didn’t actually ask,” Sol replied, then held out a glass of water. I took it gratefully, sipping the cold water. “But they didn’t stop me.”

“Sounds… not like you.”

“Have they heard you yet?” he asked.

“Hours ago,” I muttered. There was no clock in the little room, but there was a narrow window, and the faint sunlight coming through it had already crept from the base of the wall all the way to the table leg on the floor since I’d been here. Now, the light was dimming quickly, and the shadows in the room were lengthening.

Great way to spend the day: standing in front of the full Council, under curious and disapproving and suspicious gazes, telling the kingdom’s most powerful magicians about my dreams. They asked questions; then, as an apprentice, I wasn’t allowed to stay and listen to the actual deliberation. I had to wait out here, where both doors (the one to the Council chamber and the one to the corridor) were guarded.

“I heard what happened in the Lost Library,” Sol began cautiously.

“Yeah,” I nodded. “Turns out that Lysander Langston, the guy I keep dreaming about, isn’t just the creator of the Dusk—he’s also a full-fledged, certifiable lunatic.”

“Magicians can’t have children,” Sol stated. “Everyone knows that.”

“Sure,” I replied. “Seems like he tried anyway.”

Sol fiddled with the edge of the bench. “What… what if he succeeded?”

I shrugged. “They didn’t tell me anything. Locke dragged me out of there. The librarians were all busy trying to examine and record and map everything. Rowland supposedly did some kind of sealing spell so no one could enter that…laboratory, and then we were already on our way back. I swear, if they think I had anything to do with this crap—”

I couldn’t finish the sentence, because the door to the Council Chamber opened and a guard stepped inside.

“It’ll be alright,” Sol said quickly.

“The Council is waiting for you,” the guard announced.

With a sigh, I stood up, brushed off the front of my coat, and followed the guard.

I tried to take deep breaths as we stepped into the grand, ornate Hall of the Council. The air was cool—and tense . Through the tall, pointed windows, only the last faint light of the setting sun seeped in, but beneath the vaulted ceiling, hundreds of light-spheres hovered, casting a soft glow over the room.

At the center of the high, semi-circular platform sat Ashmore, as always, the golden and emerald flames of the Torch of Enlightenment glinting in the colored glass panes of the central window behind her.

The silence was loud, broken only by the soft echo of our footsteps on the stone floor. My gaze searched for Locke among the Council members, but his face was unreadable.

The guard gave a brief nod before leaving me alone in the centre of the hall. I straightened my back and clasped my hands behind me.

Ashmore’s voice filled the chamber. “Twenty-seven Councillors are present today, here to better comprehend the risks threatening the magician society and the kingdom as well. We aim to examine the possible role in the events of Apprentice William Alden, who is currently in his first year under the guidance of Councillor Ellis Locke, responsible for Magical Artefact Authentication. We are the guardians of magic, the stewards of its extraordinary powers. As individuals chosen by fate to possess this gift, it is incumbent upon us to exercise it with the utmost care and restraint. We must strive for balance, for magic unbounded can sow chaos and destruction.” These were probably the same words she used the very first time I stood before the Council. Maybe it was some sort of mandatory introduction… “William Alden, step forward, please.”

I swallowed, taking an uncertain step forward.

“Well, William.” Ashmore shuffled a bundle of papers in front of her. Her face was calm and composed, her voice smooth. “We don’t know what sort of connection there might be between you and Councillor Langston.”

And it took you three hours to discuss that , I thought sourly, but I kept my mouth shut.

“However,” Ashmore’s voice echoed through the room, “we have tried to piece together and review all the knowledge we have so far. The fact remains that you became an apprentice under unusual circumstances, after a violation of our law. Also, unlike the usual practice, you did not participate in the formal education provided by the Academy to every young magician. Nevertheless, according to your master and other tutors, you have proven yourself to be a particularly talented and diligent student.”

I glanced around in surprise. Some nodded approvingly, but others looked down at me with disapproval. 

An exceptionally elderly-looking man at the far right looked as though he weren’t even awake.

“However, it is also a fact that during the few months you spent at the Sanctum, you caused more trouble than any other apprentice has in their entire apprenticeship. According to the feedback...” She glanced down at his notes. “You are reckless, impatient, disrespectful, and undisciplined.”

This was no longer surprising. I tried to shift my weight from one foot to the other without drawing attention, keeping my gaze fixed on the ground in front of me.

“Furthermore,” Ashmore continued, “It seems you possess an exceptionally high level of magical power, which, when combined with the previously mentioned traits, has often led to life-threatening situations for both yourself and others.”

Ashmore’s words echoed through the high walls. My fingers tightened behind my back.

“At your master’s instruction, you wear a talisman that helps keep your uncontrolled use of magic in check, am I correct?”

My voice sounded strangely small in the huge chamber. “Yes, Councillor.”

“Right,” Ashmore nodded. “Earlier today, you reported about your dreams related to Lysander Langston, and how you found—let me remind you, by breaking our rules and customs—the hidden chambers of Councillor Langston. Councillor Rowland, responsible for Arcane Defence, has also provided us with a detailed report on today’s events. In light of these, we would like to inform you of our decision.”

I swallowed again. My eyes sought out Locke, and he was looking back at me, but I couldn’t read his thoughts from his face. I took a deep breath.

“The Council, after thorough deliberation, has come to the following conclusion.” Ashmore’s voice filled the Chamber. The scribe was writing down every word. “We do not currently regard Apprentice William Alden as a threat to the Sanctum, to this Council, or to the kingdom.”

She paused, looking down at me with furrowed brows. “However… your unusual magical constitution, your demonstrated affinity to unstable arcane forces, and, most importantly, your apparent connection to Councillor Lysander Langston—and thus to the creatures known as the Dusk—cannot be ignored, and–”

My voice echoed strangely in the hall. “But I have nothing to do–”

“Apprentice Alden.” Ashmore didn’t have to raise her voice to silence me. I froze, heat rising to my face. “You will not speak out of turn before this Council.”

There was a faint murmur among the Councillors, like shifting robes, rustling papers, taps of fingers against armrests. Locke gave me a hard stare— watch your mouth.

I bit my lip, lowering my eyes.

Ashmore sighed. “The Dusk has resurfaced. Its reemergence, while still poorly understood, represents a threat to the structure we have built and protected for centuries. If there exists even a possibility that your connection to Langston extends to the Dusk itself, it is our duty to investigate it thoroughly and without delay. Understood?”

“Yes, Councillor.”

“You are to remain within the Sanctum, under the continued instruction of Councillor Locke. You will pursue your studies with utmost dedication, and you are to make yourself available to this Council at any time, should further examination be required.”

Her eyes briefly scanned the faces of the Council before she continued.

“The notion that a magician might have succeeded in overcoming the natural infertility of our kind has long been considered… impossible. Dangerous speculation. But given the evidence uncovered in Councillor Langston’s former laboratory, and the nature of your visions—” she hesitated for the first time, just briefly “—we are forced to entertain the possibility that he attempted to create life.”

A murmur stirred through the chamber, though they probably have already spent hours discussing this. The scribe’s quill scratched loudly on the parchment.

“If Councillor Langston used his own blood in the creation of the Dusk, and you, Apprentice Alden, share that blood… it may explain the peculiar nature of your dreams, and might open possibilities in our fight against the Dusk.”

My mouth had gone dry.

“We therefore request,” Ashmore said carefully, “that you submit to a formal magical blood examination, to determine whether there is any… biological connection between yourself and Councillor Langston.”

I stared at her. A blood examination? What the hell is even that?

I swallowed, trying to steady my voice. “I—I don’t have any connection to him. I’ve never…”

Ashmore didn’t flinch. “That is not for you to decide, apprentice. You will comply, and the investigation will reveal the truth.”

“And if I don’t?” The words slipped out before I could stop them.

A low growl rumbled through the chamber—Rowland’s voice. “You may obey willingly,” he said, and even the floor trembled beneath my feet. “Or we will have you bound, silenced, and tested in a cell, under heavy guard.”

I gulped. “Charming.”

A sharp intake of breath from somewhere to the left. A whisper—“What a cheek!” The scratch of the scribe’s quill paused.

Then—a quiet, deliberate throat-clear.

Locke. My gaze snapped to him, and our eyes met for a moment. I huffed, forcing myself to stand straighter. To stay quiet. 

Ashmore gave the faintest tilt of her head. “We do not believe you are a threat, William. However, your connection to Councillor Langston, and the potential link to the Dusk, cannot be ignored. Do you understand?”

I gulped. “Yes, Councillor.”

Ashmore sighed, her face softening a bit. “You are not, at this time, considered a direct danger to the Sanctum or the kingdom. Comply with the rules. Continue your studies. If you follow the path of discipline and dedication, then all will be well.” The scratch of the scribe’s quill stopped as she fell silent. “Do you understand the decision of the Council?”

I nodded stiffly. “Yes, Councillor.”

“Then you are dismissed.”

The antechamber the guard escorted me back to was already completely dark. Instinctively, I conjured a light orb as he told me to sit and wait for my master. For a moment, I stubbornly thought I wouldn’t sit—tired of having every moment of my day dictated—but then I realised just how exhausted I was and sank down onto the bench by the wall.

Half an hour later I was lying on my back, one knee raised, left hand dangling over the floor.

What the hell am I doing now?

Locke entered with a weary, troubled expression. “Come on,” he said, stepping towards the door that led out.

“What exactly is this blood examination?” I asked as I stood.

He opened the door, gesturing for me to leave. “A formal identification. We are going to take a sample of your blood and compare it against the registry.”

“And that tells you what?” I pressed, following.

“Magical imprinting. Markers in the blood. Affinities. Sometimes dormant traits. Blood relations.”

“But I’m not related to Lysander.” I tried to sound confident, but there was an edge of desperation in my voice. 

Locke steered me into a wide corridor towards the enchanted garden. “You might be.”

“Magicians can’t have children,” I said, now clearly desperate. 

“Councillor Langston’s work will be thoroughly investigated. For the time being, we cannot rule out the possibility that he had succeeded.”

I swallowed hard, but I couldn't stop myself from asking, “And what... what else does this blood examination reveal?”

Locke gave me a questioning glance. “The blood can carry echoes of magic. Resonances of power that have passed through generations–”

“But magicians can’t have children.”

“Yes—however, you are also aware that certain bloodlines produce more magicians than others, and these bloodlines can be traced back through history.”

He opened the door that led to the garden, and we stepped out onto the path, into the biting cold, between the high trees and the vibrant underbrush. 

“Do you have samples of Lysander’s blood?” I asked.

Locke’s gaze was heavy, a bit reproachful as I kicked a small pebble away. “No, we–”

“Then how do you intend to compare my blood to his?”

“Stop interrupting me, William, if you want me to answer your questions.”

I huffed, looking away. “Sorry.”

“It’s not that simple,” continued Locke. “We don’t store actual blood samples, but rather the magical remnants of the blood. By adding your blood to them, we will be able to receive answers.”

“That sounds a lot like blood magic.”

“This is not blood magic.”

“I’m just saying, it sounds like–”

I fell silent at Locke’s stare as he opened the door to the Sanctum. “Blood magic is illegal and unethical,” he said, his voice hard, a sharp edge to it. “It’s dangerous. Unreliable.” He paused as the door closed behind us with a heavy sound. 

I followed him silently down the long corridor. The painted portrait of Lysander Langston, now marked by the scars left by Voracian claws, stared at us ominously.

“Are we doing this like right now?” I asked morosely.

“Tomorrow morning,” Locke replied. “Now, you are going to have dinner.”

“Great,” I muttered.

Guess that gives me some time to figure out what I’m going to do.

 

I lay awake the whole night.

I’d been staring at the ceiling for hours, tossing my blanket around, slapping my palm against the mattress in frustration. The room was too quiet, too still.

What the hell do I do now?

I rolled onto my side. Then to my back. Then to my side again.  The blanket tangled around my legs like it was trying to hold me down.

My fingers found the talisman on my chest, and I stared down at it, turning it over and over, pressing the edge into my thumb hard enough to feel the sting.

I wasn’t afraid of being related to Lysander.

Maybe I could stay. If we go through with the examination, by tomorrow morning we’ll know whether I have any connection to Lysander or not. And even if I do, that doesn’t prove I’ve done anything wrong. Lysander almost certainly used blood magic when he created the Dusk—maybe my blood could actually be useful against them. Maybe that’s what the Council is missing right now. Not a secret weapon, but the blood of the Dusk’s creator?

And if it turns out I’ve got no link to him at all, then… well, I’d still want to know why I’ve been dreaming about him so much.

I could stay. Hope everything turns out well. Maybe this blood examination would show nothing. I could go back to the lessons. Continue studying.

But what if something else comes to light in the morning?

The only solution might be to disappear…

I knew I was forbidden to leave the Sanctum, but I was fairly certain that if I wanted to, it wouldn’t be difficult. Maybe I could climb out of a window. Or simply walk out the door.

They’d call it fleeing. 

Also, Locke has that tracking spell on me…

I could disappear, of course. Probably even from a strong and persistent tracking spell. If I took off the talisman, I’d have more than enough power for it.

The fingers of my right hand slid to my left forearm, searching for the faint, almost invisible scars where, more than ten years ago, I’d carved the warding runes into my own skin—

—so I could disappear.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to do it again.

Locke would look for me.

We are magically bonded, as master and apprentice.

…And I would fucking miss him, the bastard. 

I turned onto my back, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes.

Do I like being a damned apprentice? Do I like the Sanctum? Do I like…Locke?

What the hell happened to me?

I can run. I can have another name. Another lie.

I clutched the talisman, and it felt much, much heavier than it should.

The potion Locke had given me, to help me fall asleep tonight, lay untouched on my bedside table.

Sometime around dawn, before the sun had risen, I slipped out of bed, pulled on my cloak, and wandered off to the library, slightly dazed from exhaustion.

I tried to find books about this blood examination—about the blood registry, the magical imprints Locke had mentioned, anything that might help me better understand what exactly we were about to do… 

When Locke found me hours later, I was asleep in a tucked-away corner, slumped over a book on blood magic.

“I told you, the blood test has nothing to do with blood magic,” he grumbled.

I rubbed my face sleepily, blinking at the pages in front of me. Sigils, old diagrams, ink smudged on the margin. Useless.

“What time is it?” I asked in a sleepy, hoarse voice.

“Nearly eight. Get changed. I will expect you in my office after breakfast.”

Nearly eight. 

It was happening. And I hadn’t come up with a single decent idea—let alone made a decision.

Locke turned to leave, but I pushed myself up, heart beating too fast, mouth dry. “Wait, I–”

Wait, I can’t do this? Wait, I need more time? Wait, I need to run away?

He looked back at me, and I turned my face away, exhaling shakily. 

“Yes?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said quickly.

The silence stretched uncomfortably. I kept my eyes on the table, but could feel his gaze on me, studying me.

“What are you afraid of?” he asked, voice low and steady, like he already knew the answer.

“Nothing.”

“William.” Like a command. 

“I said nothing. I’m not afraid of some blood magic.” I tried to sound confident, but the words were hollow, even to me.

His eyes flashed. “I told you, it’s not blood magic.”

I huffed in frustration.

He just waited, staring at me, the silence stretching. I hated how he used these silences to drive me mad. How he knew very well that he could wait much, much longer than I could.

I kicked the chair back as I stood up abruptly, shutting the book closed on the desk and turned towards the door–

Locke grabbed my arm, hard enough to hold me in place, to make me face him. “William…” His voice was softer now. “There are so many unanswered questions in this situation. But the Dusk is a dangerous force now, and we must do everything we can to stop it. If there’s even the slightest possibility that Lysander Langston had a child—descendants—we have to find them.”

“Because of blood magic?” I shot back, trying to twist out of his grip.

Locke sighed, a deep, almost resigned sound. His hold tightened. “No. There are devices that Lysander Langston created for the Council, to control the Dusk. These devices needed his blood. Without him, it’s much harder to control the Dusk.”

“A rather polished way to say the Council’s lost control entirely, isn’t it?”

Locke’s eyes narrowed, and I could hear the reproach in his voice. “William…”

“And the Council has a rather flexible interpretation of blood magic, when it serves their purposes,” I grumbled.

“William,” he said, his voice sharper now, but then there was a sigh, and his expression softened. “You don’t have to be afraid. If–”

“I’m not afraid.” 

He looked at me, his gaze steady. “Nothing will change if we find out that you are indeed related to Lysander Langston. You—”

“I’m not afraid of being related to him.”

Locke’s eyes flashed. “Will you stop interrupting me?”

I crossed my arms, staying silent.

He lifted my chin with one finger. “Then what? Your family?”

I looked away, biting the inside of my cheek. “I don’t have a family.”

“You are lying.”

“I’m not.”

Locke’s gaze turned even sharper. “Then look me in the eye and answer me a single question: Are your parents alive?”

I glared at him. 

Then swallowed and turned my eyes away.

The silence stretched long and uncomfortable. His sigh sounded disappointed. Then his finger slipped away from my chin, his hand released my arm. “Clean clothes, breakfast, then my study. Go.”

 

The Refectory was completely empty, except for Gavin, who was sitting at the middle of one of the long tables, nibbling on toast while reading a book.

With a sigh, I sat down at a respectable distance from him and pulled a pastry stand in front of me, hoping it would provide some cover.

I was just pouring my tea when, between buns and the scones, I noticed Gavin had lowered his book and was eyeing me.

I took a big sip of my tea. The enchanted pot kept it warm, and it burned my throat a little as I swallowed.

“They say you do have something to do with the Dusk after all,” Gavin spoke up.

For a moment, I froze completely. Then I just shrugged and took a big bite of my scone. 

“They say you have dreams about the Dusk,” Gavin added. “Is it true?”

I swallowed. “They also say you still haven’t managed to perform that energy-capture charm in Rowland’s class,” I said. Rowland had been teaching us a defensive spell against the Dusk, one that required harnessing a strand of the Dusk’s own energy. Gavin hadn’t successfully done it once during the practice sessions. “A bit embarrassing, don’t you think?”

He pushed his plate aside grumpily and stood up.

“I was only trying to have a conversation,” he muttered.

“Well, you’re not much better at conversations than you are at defensive spells, are you?” I shrugged, reaching for a second scone from the tray. Who knew when I’d next have a proper breakfast? Who knew when I’d next eat a hot meal? Just to be safe, I placed a third scone on my plate as well.

Gavin headed towards the door, but then paused and turned back.

“You know,” Gavin said, glaring at me, “I used to think it was unfair how you became an apprentice—while the rest of us had to work for years, pass trials, prove ourselves again and again. But I’ve changed my mind.” He gave a dry little huff. “You really are a talented magician. Shame you’re also kind of an asshole.”

“I’ve seen Locke caning you once,” I said casually, sipping my tea. Only my hand trembled slightly as I lifted the cup. “I nearly saw your—”

“Do you really love being alone that much?” Gavin snarled. “Is that why you push everyone away? Everyone knows Locke never wanted an apprentice. If they throw you out because of the Dusk, I doubt anyone will even care.”

I swallowed hard. 

He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

“This is why no one ever visits you?” he went on. “Maybe even your own family didn’t want you? Maybe your mother–”

It happened in a blink. My left hand tore the talisman from my neck with a sharp tug—the cord snapped, the small stone clattered against the table. My right hand rose instinctively.

The magical force that blasted from my fingers slammed into Gavin before his eyes could even widen in surprise. His body hit the floor with a heavy thud.

 

I don’t know why I went to Locke’s office instead of running in the opposite direction.

I hesitated for a moment, then opened the door. Locke looked up from behind his desk, surprised. Finnian was standing in front of him, and it seemed I’d interrupted a conversation.

Locke’s gaze was hard. “Step out, knock properly, greet us, and then you can explain why you are not wearing your talisman,” Locke said dryly. The warning stone linked to my talisman was lying on the desk in front of him.

I didn’t move, just slammed the door shut behind me. “I attacked Gavin,” I said. “In the Refectory.”

A beat of silence.

“Excuse me?”

“He might still be unconscious,” I added with a shrug.

Locke stared at me. “You did what ?”

I stayed silent.

Locke took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, then nodded to Finnian. “Please alert Councillor Lisdin.”

“Yes, Councillor.” 

Finnian slipped quietly out the door. The silence that stayed in the study was heavy and awkward.

Locke ran a hand slowly down his face, then pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Councillor Ashmore and Councillor Kheamt are already waiting for us. We don’t have time for this.”

I stared at the front legs of his writing desk.

What the hell am I even doing here?

“What exactly happened?” Locke asked.

I kept stubbornly silent. My left hand—the one clutching the talisman—was trembling slightly.

He stood up. “Answer me.”

Our eyes met for a moment. Then I bit my lip and looked away, letting my gaze drift across his desk instead. Neatly stacked piles of paperwork. A few scrolls resting atop a large ledger. A small vial of golden Auric Dust. A charcoal stick. For some reason, a compass. An inkwell, quills, a pendulum…

This was the spot where Locke had first—

Locke cleared his throat. “William.”

I flinched. “Yes?”

“Pull yourself together. I asked you what happened.”

I shrugged again. My fingers were digging into the talisman, almost painfully now. “He was provoking me.”

Locke let out an angry sigh. “And what exactly did he say that warranted an attack?”

Another shrug. “I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

Locke shoved his chair back in frustration and reached for his coat.

Once, he’d spanked me on that very chair.

“What spell did you use?” he asked.

“None,” I replied.

“None,” Locke echoed. His voice sounded flat, but it wasn’t hard to hear the anger beneath it. “Great. We will talk about this again,” he promised grimly, stepping towards the door. “Come on, we need to hurry.”

I didn’t move.

I was staring at the cabinet in the corner—the one I had blown up before.

I had only spent a few months at the Sanctum, barely half a year, but in that time, so much had happened.

There was that chair across from Locke’s desk, the one he always made me sit in when he wanted to scold me. It stood empty now.

Locke stood in the open doorway, looking back at me expectantly. “William? We need to go.”

I could hear my pulse in my ears. I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to leave this room.

“Where will the examination take place?” I asked, my voice sounding strange in my own ears. I could feel my chest tightening, my breath shallow. My gaze flickered over the desk—over the piles of paperwork, the scrolls, the Auric Dust sitting innocently in its vial.

Locke had caned me over this desk.

That had fucking hurt.

Locke—

I swallowed hard.

“Here, at the Sanctum. If we could get going...”

“Who will be there?”

“Councillor Ashmore, Councillor Kheamt, and perhaps a few magicians from her department. Guards. Probably a scribe. You don’t have to be afraid.”

I could barely hear his words. It was getting harder to breathe.

What if the find out—

“What if they...” I stopped. 

It was too late. It was already happening.

“William?” Locke’s voice was sharper now, but it barely cut through the fog in my brain.

I turned away, pressing the edge of my palm to my forehead.

Could I just disappear? Could I leave right now and never come back?

Could I really just vanish again?

No family. No friends. No…Locke.

A sigh behind me, then Locke’s body next to mine. A hand on my shoulder, turning me gently around.

“William? What’s wrong?”

I shook my head.

“Blood testing is an ancient, safe method. There is nothing to fear. We are simply going to examine the magical properties of your blood, your bloodline, any potential connections you might have to other magicians or known families…”

Bloodline.

Something cold turned over in my stomach.

“I don’t want to do this,” I said. My voice sounded strangely far away.

“There is nothing to worry about…”

I wanted to scream—but instead, I laughed, right into Locke’s stunned face.

Nothing to worry about.

His frown deepened. “I know this makes you uncomfortable. But right now you are…” He shook his head. “It’s just an examination. That’s all. If you are connected to Lysander Langston, then–”

I huffed, and he fell silent.

Lysander.

I had forgotten this was about Lysander.

“I’m not doing it,” I declared. 

Locke blinked. “You don’t have a choice.”

“I can’t.”

His expression hardened. Standing this close, I could see just how tired he looked. “This is not optional.”

“You don’t understand.”

“No,” he said flatly. “Clearly, I don’t.” He studied my face for a long moment. “I have given you time. I have never pressed about your past, your family. I thought eventually you would come to trust me. But now…your magic, your dreams, your connection to Lysander Langston… You could be dangerous, Will.”

I flinched.

Locke’s voice was low, almost reluctant. “You don’t get to opt out of the answers just because they scare you. Maybe we should have done this months ago.”

A long silence stretched between us.

Then Locke added, voice quieter but no less firm, “You either come with me willingly and let us do the examination, or you will be restrained and brought there. Those are the only options left.”

Pressure, building in my chest–

You could be dangerous.

My pulse pounded in my ears.

Disappearing. Becoming a ghost. 

I’m capable of disappearing. No one would be able to find me.

But how do I get away?

There was a vial of Auric Dust on Locke’s desk. He was saying something, but I didn’t hear a word. 

You could be dangerous.

My pulse drummed, fast, erratic, loud, as I grabbed the vial, my hands trembling as I pulled out the stopper. Locke said something, but his voice sounded distant and faint—perhaps something about lacking permission, which almost made me laugh, because of course that’s what bothered  him: that I don’t have permission to use Auric Dust. Not the simple fact that, because of the Sanctum’s countless ancient wards, it shouldn’t even work.

Also, I had no idea how to use Auric Dust. 

I backed away. Locke’s voice snapped, sharper now.

The dust was light and fine, the tiny particles clinging to my fingers, shimmering. I drew a straight line across my forehead with it.

“William.”

Locke was suddenly beside me, gripping my arm, and I still had no idea how Auric Dust actually worked—I could only think that I had to disappear, had to get out of here, didn’t matter where, just away ... and I could feel the tears on my face, because who the hell wants to leave the one place where, despite everything, I actually wanted to stay…

But it all happened in a heartbeat—Locke didn’t even have time to cry out before I wrenched myself free of his grasp and—

I let the talisman slip from my fingers, and it clinked softly against the floor.

And I was gone.

 

 

A sharp pull through my entire body.

Suddenly I was aware that there was a reason the use of Auric Dust was restricted—that people had died from improper use–

I couldn’t breathe. There was no air, or I had no lungs, or I just wasn’t existing anymore. It was hard to decide, hard to think, because I was falling, falling through darkness and space and magic, my bones melting and pressure building behind my eyes, in my chest, in my teeth…

It was too fast, too narrow, too loud. A great roaring emptiness. 

And then—nothing.

It wasn’t silence.

Wasn’t darkness.

Just—nothing.

Shit.

But then I slammed into something hard and unyielding, my legs giving out beneath me as my knees and palms hit the stone, and there were lights and voices and people all around me… music… violins… softly trickling water…

The scent of grass, of earth, of flowers. Of wine. Of laughter and dance and spring.

Flowers everywhere. In baskets, in ribbons, woven into braids and buttonholes and spilling from silver vases. 

The Festival of the First Bloom. A sunrise ball to celebrate the arrival of spring. To gather in the gardens, still in winter coats but adorned with flowers, to watch the sacred flower bloom. 

I remembered thinking ‘didn’t matter where, just away’, and I laughed hysterically, because fuck— I didn’t mean here. Anywhere but here.

Of all the fucking places.

Stone paths lined with colourful ribbons and garlands woven from flowers. Tall poles with fluttering streamers. Evergreen shrubs, trimmed to an obscenely perfect shape.

I knew these stones.

I knew that fountain.
I knew that statue with the stupid heroic pose.

No.

People were gathering around me. Gasps. Swirling coats. Tilting masks. 

Someone dropped a glass. 

A small child pointed.

Whispers rose sharply.

I tried to stand, but the world tilted, and I doubled over, vomiting. 

“Who is that—?”

“Did he just—”

“Is he drunk?”

Boots. Heavy metal on stone. Guards.

I looked up, blinking through tears. Swords. Hands on hilts. A woman in black shouting orders.

Beyond them—more guards, magicians, ready to cast spells.

A hand grabbed my arm hard, and for a moment I remembered Locke’s fingers around my biceps– but this was different, this was wrong…

I could feel the tendrils of magic around me, inside me, under my skin, prickling, wanting to break free–

There were voices around me, sharp, commanding. I knew they were asking about me, who I was, how I ended up here, what I was doing, but they were drowned out by the thunder in my ears. In my head. My heartbeat, the blood rushing in my veins. 

I blinked, trying to sharpen the world, to brush aside the tears, the all-consuming white haze of magic, to focus on the budding trees, the tall stone walls stretching in the background, the ornate gargoyles, the pointed windows… But this only brought more tears to my eyes, more tension to my muscles, and more magic everywhere…

I recognised the deep green and silver embroidery on the uniform of the magician guards, the sigils on their cuffs glowing faintly. Another hand on my shoulder.

I couldn’t breathe.

The magic was rising. Pressing up against my skin like it wanted out. Flaring. Cracking.

A guard reached for something on his belt. Another figure moved in, hands raised—casting something, maybe—but the only magic here was mine, covering everything.

Shit shit shit.

The world was narrowing. I could feel my body shaking. I could feel magic breaking open, bleeding around me.

Not here. Not here.

Please just not again.

Then I heard another scream, distant but sharp, and I could already feel it was different—a different kind of panic, nothing to do with me— please let it have nothing to do with me —because the shadows were twisting at the edges of the garden, and the air was getting cold and the world was getting ghastly, and please let it have nothing to do with me —because I knew what that meant. I knew what the screams meant, what it meant when the guards let go of me in shock, what the cries for help meant, that long, drawn-out, agonising scream, the pounding footsteps, the soft rustling of darkness...

The Dusk. 

But all I could feel was the magic inside me, straining, splintering, breaking my skin and melting my bones, ready to flare, ready to explode, to burst free, to…

To set the world on fire.

Fuck.

My fingers trembled, and I wasn’t breathing, I simply couldn’t. But the vial of Auric Dust was still clutched in my hand, and the thin powder was beautiful as it poured over my skin, as it coated my fingers…

There was too much magic. 

I bit down on a sob and dragged the Auric Dust across my face, across the hot, almost scorching skin of my forehead with a shaking hand. I could feel the heat, I could smell the burning fire…

You could be dangerous.

I let go with a scream. 

 

The world yanked itself out from under me.

Gone was the ball. Gone were the screams, the darkness of the Dusk, the ornate walls of the palace rising in the background.

I let go. 

I was being torn apart, but I didn’t care. I was scattered. The world was scattered. 

I didn’t care.

The world was heat and flames. Orange, blue, white.

Actual flames.

Again.

Magic curled around my ribs, pressing, twisting, hurting.

The ground was soggy beneath my boots, slick with mud—and—and burning, the mud hissing, steaming, turning to ash…

The heat cut through the air, wrapped around me, burned my eyes. It was thick, suffocating. Tasted like hot embers in my mouth, coating my throat, choking me, filling my lungs with smoke.

Something crackled. Like a hundred things breaking at once. The fire was eating me. The air. The world. 

Flames everywhere. Crawling through the landscape. Ripping reality apart with magic. Burning my tears away.

The dry, decayed trees crackled as they burned; fallen, gnarled branches turned to ash instantly.

It was wrong, wrong, wrong, how the world burned and twisted and bent. The fire consumed everything. And it was all because of me, because of my magic. I could feel it unraveling, and I tried to scream but I couldn’t, couldn’t even breathe as I stood, shaking and unable to move, in the centre of the fire that consumed the world around me. 

My magic.

My fire.

Everything burned.

The fire was everywhere. Crawling, howling. A thousand teeth tearing through the world.

Burning books, collapsing bookshelves... but no. This isn’t that place. This is a swamp.

And the water was on fire. The water was on fire.

It bubbled thick and black, like it was alive, like it was angry; it popped and splashed and screamed, and it sounded like a voice, like hundreds of voices–

It was me .

I didn’t know where I ended and the fire began.

I didn’t know if I wanted it to end.

I couldn’t control it. I never could. It was bursting out of me in waves—roaring, crackling, laughing .

Sweet, thick, rotten smell. Wings beating frantically above, dark shapes against the smoke, bats, or birds, dropping one by one, smoking, twitching, trailing feathers and flame…

I couldn’t breathe. My eyes streamed. My throat was raw. My lips tasted of blood and soot and magic. I coughed. I was on my knees, my palm pressed against the burning ground, flames dancing around my fingers, and I vomited up smoke and ash and more magic.

It wouldn’t stop.

It wouldn’t—

My fingers twitched, clawed, curled in on themselves.

Some creature shrieked in the distance, a long, painful, piercing sound… It ended abruptly.

My magic was singing, screaming, trashing under my skin. I could feel it clawing through my ribs. I could hear it in my bones.

I felt it flare again inside me, hungry, burning up my blood, threading through my veins, crawling up my spine. I clawed at my skin, my arms, my face, trying to get it out, get it out, get it out—

But it was me.

It was all me.

Then—hands on my shoulders.

What?

Someone grabbed me. It was hard, urgent, painful. Fingers digging into my skin. I didn’t like it; I flinched, jerked, tried to twist away, but my limbs weren’t working right and the hands held me tightly.

And a voice. Sharp, commanding. 

Words…maybe my name?

What was my name?

My breath came in ragged, broken gasps.

I struggled, trying to break free.

The fire roared in my ears. The world was burning.

That voice…more words. I bent down, sinking my teeth into the fingers gripping my shoulder. The fire flared up even stronger.

A sharp sound. A sharp pain on my face.

Ouch.

Locke.

Locke slapped me.

Locke was telling me to breathe.

I tried, I tried to breathe, even as I tried to break free from his arms, I really tried to breathe, but everything was hot and everything was flames and fire was burning my throat...

“Come on,” his voice was hoarse; demanding. “Breathe, William. Breathe.”

I tried. I coughed again. The fire roared around us.

How did Locke get here?

I heard his voice. Sometimes the crackling of the fire drowned it out, sometimes I could hear him clearly. He stood before me, his face covered in dirt and ash, his eyes glowing darkly.

“ With each inhalation and exhalation, I feel a deepening sense of calm and focus… ”

Meditation. I remembered how we sat in the meditation chamber in the evenings, how I listened to his words for the thousandth time, as he guided me through the steps of the exercise. I always hated it.

Still… a deep breath.

“ Only I am here, at this moment, with complete concentration… ”

My mind felt like it was about to burst. I knelt on the ground, staring at the smouldering earth beneath me. I gasped for air.

“Come on, Will. Breathe... I feel the tension leaving my body with each breath. Come on, William.”

I couldn’t look up, but I could see Locke’s leg in front of me, kneeling in the mud, in the ashes, in the fire.

“Come on. That’s it. Good, really good, Will. Just breathe. I let the rhythm of my breathing guide me deeper into focus… ”

I shook my head. The fire subsided, only to flare up again.

The fire was the end of everything... but if the fire ends, then everything will truly be over, won’t it?

I shook my head violently. The world was spinning, flames licking at the edges of my vision, heat suffocating me.

Locke grabbed my chin and lifted my head. 

“Look at me.” His voice was steady, calm. I tried to look at him, but the world was made of smoke and it was falling apart… Yet Locke didn’t seem afraid. Our eyes met, and he stared back at me, dark, unyielding. “Focus. Focus on my voice.” His thumb brushed the side of my face. “I’m here to help. You are not alone.”

Tears streamed down my face.

The fire roared louder. The swamp was still burning, the world still melting, but his eyes didn’t leave mine.

“Breathe,” Locke repeated, soft but insistent. “I can make the fire disappear, but you keep bringing it alive. You need to stop.”

His breath matched mine.

I didn’t want to be alone. 

“Good. That’s it, Will. Keep going. Keep breathing.”

My breath still hurt, but the fire was quieter.

My magic was softer now. Silent. I took a shaky and ragged, but deep breath. Fresh.

“Good. Good.” Locke’s voice was a low murmur. His hands were still on me, steady and real. 

Relief.

The silence rang in my ear as the last of the flames blinked out in the distance.

“Wh– where– where are we?” My voice was low, hoarse and raspy, and I had to cough again.

The world around us was a dead, scorched swamp: mud, ash, and the charred skeletons of hollow trees. The air was thick with fog and smoke, the acrid taste of it biting at my tongue, lingering at the back of my throat.

I already knew Locke’s answer, “The Marshlands of Durnock.”

I swallowed, wiping at my face. Sweat, tears, dust, ash, and blood clung to my hand. My fingers were still trembling.

But there was no more fire. 

I was unharmed, and so was Locke.

I closed my eyes, letting the cool, nearly still air fill my lungs.

I exhaled shakily— and bit my lip so hard that blood ran down my chin. Locke flinched, his hand moving from my shoulder to my chin.

Shit.

I knelt motionless on the ground, letting Locke sweep the tangled strands of hair from my face. I was cold.

So cold…

The worst part wasn’t the all-consuming, uncontrollable, deadly fire.

It wasn’t the fear of the fire or of my magic.

—It was the overwhelming feeling of how fucking powerful I was.

What might I be capable of with this power?

‘What you fear is not power—it is what you might become when you stop fearing it,” Lysander once said, and now I understood exactly what he meant.

Lysander…

The Dusk.

Shit.

I jumped to my feet so suddenly that Locke barely managed to catch me before I stumbled and collapsed back onto the ground.

“The Dusk,” I gasped, my voice cracking in panic. “The palace… the castle… the Dusk...”

Locke’s hands were steady on my shoulders. “Yes, I know,” he said, his voice low and calming. “Breathe. Slow down.”

I shook my head, frantic. “But the palace... the Dusk...”

“William.” His tone was firm. “Take a deep breath. Now.”

“But the Dusk!” I almost screamed. How could he not understand that while we were wasting time here, the ball in the capital—the one that had been held every year for a thousand years—had been interrupted, and people might be dying? That the palace… all the people there… the Dusk… “We have to go there,” I stated. “Now.”

He didn’t flinch. His eyes burned into mine, his face hard, his jaw set. “You are not going anywhere. You are not–”

I tried to tear away from his hand, but he held my wrist in an iron grip. “You don’t understand,” I hissed. “We have to–”

“No,” he snapped. “ You don’t understand.” His voice was final, uncompromising. He leaned in closer, and there was no softness, no empathy in his gaze. “You are not in any state to do anything right now. You lost control of your magic completely.”

“But–”

“You can’t even–”

“But we have to–”

“No.” Locke said, voice still cold. “You don’t know how to fight the Dusk. You haven’t even completed the very first stage of your training. You are not–”

I struggled in his grip. “Why the hell are we wasting time with this stupid discussion?” I practically shouted.

Locke’s face darkened. “This is not a discussion. You don’t get a say in what happens next. I’m getting you to safety, and then I’m going to the capital to help with the fight.”

“But I…”

Locke’s voice was like ice. “ If you try to follow me, I will drag you back by your hair, if I have to.”

I froze.

“You are not ready. You are not going. End of discussion.”

He rummaged through the inner pocket of his coat, probably looking for a bottle of Auric Dust.

To take me back to the Sanctum, I suppose, to sit and wait while he fought in the palace.

I looked down at my hands. They were bloody, dirty, and covered in ash. The small vial of Auric Dust I had stolen from Locke’s desk had at some point shattered, some of the tiny glass shards still embedded in my skin.

But beneath the blood, dirt, and ash, I saw that my skin still gleamed gold.

I raised my hand shakily.

Meanwhile, Locke took out his own, unbroken vial of Auric Dust and looked up at me in surprise while I examined my hand.

Then he saw the golden dust on my fingers.

“William—”

In a swift motion, I smeared the blood, dirt, ash and Auric Dust onto my forehead, backing away from Locke. 

I’m not breaking his rules—I’m not following him to the capital.

He can follow me if he wants.

“Don’t you dare–”

For the third time that day, I felt the Auric Dust tear me away from reality. 

 

 

The garden of the palace showed only traces that a ball had recently taken place. Dropped bouquets, withered garlands, torn ribbons. A broken glass, a mask lying in the grass.

The sacred flowers that bloomed at dawn, signalling the arrival of spring, had been trampled to the ground. 

Not far from me, a woman knelt in the grass, her coat hanging torn from her shoulder. In front of her, a little girl lay on the ground, motionless, with flowers tangled in her disheveled hair. The girl was alive: her eyes were open, her mouth agape, and she screamed, the sound sharp, loud, endless. The mother, with trembling hands, tried to free her from the darkness that clung to her, but nothing worked. The Dusk couldn’t just be pushed away with bare hands.

Shit.

The shadows between the trees and along the palace walls were too long. Black shapes emerged and crept toward the people. Magicians fought against them, palace guards in their uniforms and also Councillors, and beneath one of the pavilions, I saw the faint glimmer of a protective charm... but not everyone was behind that protection. Some had already been caught by the Dusk, some lay unconscious, while others still struggled in the hold of the twisting, quavering dark shapes...

There were many magicians. Spells flashed everywhere, pushing back the Dusk.

But the Dusk outnumbered them. As far as I could see in the garden, they were everywhere. They wrapped the few protective spells that shielded the guests in darkness. Screams echoed as one of the walls dissolved into nothing. One magician had already turned, casting curses at the Dusk, but she was alone, facing dozens of the creatures, and people scattered, palace guards shouting orders, someone crying loudly, someone repeating a name in a whimper, while the darkness roared, the magic of the Dusk engulfing everything...

But I was full of magic too. I could still feel it pulsing beneath my skin, hammering in my chest, rushing through my veins.

Someone shouted, and I turned. More darkness. More Dusk. Beside the fountain stood a woman. She wasn older now; her dark red hair streaked with grey. Her gown was the most ornate of them all, and she faced a Dusk Knight with a straight back and lifted chin, even as he raised his sword high to strike—

I screamed.

Locke appeared at my side, but I shook off his arm.

I thought of the white light—the one I’d used to drive back the Dusk in the garden between the Sanctum and the Citadel—and focused on the magic filling my body, my mind...

But the light that flooded the garden now wasn’t bright and white and radiant like in the Sanctum garden. It was dark and black—like the Dusk.

Everything went still.

Even the cries, the screams fell silent.

Even the wind died down.

Even the Dusk went still.

The darkness… I stood motionless, trembling, watching. The darkness didn’t retreat. It listened. 

It coiled at my feet like smoke. Like a slow breath.

Like we knew each other.

The Knight’s sword stayed frozen above the woman’s head. His shadowed eyes turned toward me—tilted head, slow, jerking movement, like something learning how to be human. He didn’t strike.

None of them moved.

I watched silently, motionlessly. The garden flickered—colours dulling, edges warping. The air tasted like iron and past and burnt sugar. The world wrapped itself up in soft darkness. 

I stood there, motionless, trembling, my skin crawling with magic… not fire. Not spells. Not light.

This.

Something was inside me. Swelling, growing, connecting. Something wrong and vast… I could feel it in the hollow behind my eyes. In the spaces between my ribs. It was humming softly along my magic.

Slow. Heavy. Alive.

I stood still, shaking.

Around me, the Dusk was still as statues. Waiting.

For me?

No.

No no no no no—

I took a step back, and a hundred heads turned in perfect unison. Not just turned—snapped, like they were pulled on strings.

Looking at me. Looking into me…

I could feel them inside. Not clawing, not fighting—recognising. Like the Dusk knew me. Like I knew the Dusk. I could feel them—

Thoughts that weren’t mine. Shapes, half formed. Feelings. Loss, hunger, fury. Memories. Whispers without words.

I took another trembling step back, staring at the Dusk, staring into the darkness. A low pulse through the soil… a hum in my ears, deep, hollow.

Then someone screamed again—sharp, human, terrified—and the moment shattered.

The Knight turned. The Dusk slid through the garden. Spells flared. Guards shouted. People ran.

But the Dusk still parted around me. Not attacking. Not touching… like we were parts of each other. 

Well then.

I reached for the thing inside me—whatever it was—and pushed. 

The Dusk screamed.

Not like people… not like anything alive. Like shadows being ripped apart. Like darkness being torn out of the night. 

The Dusk Knight fell to his knees. The creatures buckled inward, folding in on themselves, collapsing like puppets with cut strings. One by one. Dozens. Hundreds.

Gone…

Gone.

And the garden was silent again; a shocked, stunned, and suspicious silence.

I stood, my knees trembling, my breath shallow.

The light of a fading spell. People leaving the wards slowly, cautiously. Low sobs. Then shouts, people looking for each other. Guards leading the guests away. 

I stood still, trembling, the magic still pulsing inside.

Locke was beside me. He grabbed my shoulder, turning me toward him. His face was cold. His eyes narrowed, jaw tight—thinking, calculating. But before he could say anything, a man appeared beside us, frantic, clutching a child in his arms, speaking in hurried, desperate bursts. Locke turned away instantly, raising his hand, magic already gathering above the unconscious child.

The garden was in ruins. Dead flowers everywhere. My body felt as if it was made of stone, the magic a dull throb inside me.

People began to move, cautiously at first, like they weren’t sure if the danger had truly passed. Guards and magicians shuffled through the garden, checking the injured. Some of them were still—others wriggled, their limbs twitching as they struggled against the lingering hold of the Dusk’s magic. 

No one came close to me, but I could see the glances, the quickly averted eyes. People were whispering.

The woman by the fountain turned towards me. Her graying, blood-red hair had unraveled, and the hem of her ivory, silver-embroidered coat had become muddy, but otherwise, she seemed unharmed. For a moment, our eyes met—then I quickly turned away.

The sun emerged weakly from behind the clouds, casting long shadows over the garden. Nearby, an abandoned mask lay on the ground, shattered, beside a withered bouquet of flowers.

How much debate there had been over those flowers... The essence of the Festival of the First Bloom was to celebrate the first flower of the season. Every other flower used for the bouquets, the garlands, the ones pinned to buttonholes, had been grown in greenhouses. Some argued it ruined the essence of the First Bloom. Others enjoyed celebrating the arrival of spring with beautiful flowers.

It frustrated me terribly that I knew this.

I just stood there, motionless and silent.

The garden emptied slowly, the lingering tension thick as the guards and the magicians moved quickly, ushering the guests to safety. Some people stumbled, dazed and unsure, while others clutched each other, their faces pale, their eyes wide. Magicians moved in teams, healing the wounded. There was a hushed sense of relief spreading, but it was brittle, fragile.

Then people were around me. Locke, Rowland, Councillor Ashmore and others. Guards in the Council’s uniform and in the palace’s. 

Urgent words. Hard, clipped voices, whispers.

Then Ashmore stepped forward, her back straight, her voice clear.

“William Alden,” she said. “By order of the Council, you are under arrest for violation of the Sanctum’s rules and the magical law.”

I stared at her. Locke was beside her, holding some dark stripes of leather in his hand. 

His face was absolutely unreadable. “Your hands, please.”

What?

But I obeyed, raising my trembling arms slowly. A sick feeling spread through my chest. Locke grabbed my right hand first, snapped one of the leather bands around it with a sharp tug. It was narrow and shiny, its surface covered in thousands of tiny runes. It wrapped tightly around my wrist, sealing smoothly as if it were one endless strap. 

All that magic thrumming through me, pulsing, burning—snapped away in an instant, like a broken thread.

Kowlanow armbands. The ones they use on criminals. The ones that completely suppress all magical power.

The world blurred for a moment, and a wave of dizziness hit me so hard that I almost collapsed; Locke caught me, holdin me upright.

“Your other hand,” he ordered quietly.

His fingers felt warm against my icy skin as he strapped the band onto my left wrist. 

There was no power left in my body.

Then Locke disappeared; guards surrounded me instead, twisting my arms behind my back. I couldn’t move. I could hardly breathe. 

Strong, heavy iron shackles snapped onto my wrists.

I felt numb. 

The queen stood at a nearby entrance of the palace, her red hair catching the dim sunlight. Her gaze—those unreadable eyes fixed on me— followed as the guards led me away. 

 

Notes:

I don’t know how others do it... finally, a chapter is done, and I still end up spending a ton of time rereading and editing (which I really don’t enjoy), but then when I’m *finally* ready to upload it... every time I click the preview button, I take a quick look and find a new mistake... then again... and again...
So, I got fed up. If there’s any major mistake, please let me know ^^ Or any huge plot hole. Or anything.

(And now I have come back to edit this note... ugh)

Chapter 44: Cell

Notes:

Happy reading! <3

It was my first day in the cell. 

I was lying on my back. The cell even had a proper bed, though it was hard and narrow. I lay still, staring at the ceiling, my left hand hanging off the edge of the mattress. My chest rose and fell slowly.

There wasn’t much else to do.

The Kowlanow armbands were tight around my wrists, thin and seamless. I couldn’t feel the magic anymore. 

I kept expecting to feel it again. A flicker. A spark. Anything. But there was only silence—and the silence was as deep as never before. The absence of the constant hum of magic.

Maybe it was better this way.

Councillor Ashmore came and explained. “You are not being punished for your magical powers,” she said, her voice calm and firm. “We do not punish someone for powers they cannot control or fully understand.” She paused, her gaze steady. “However, you have violated multiple rules, William.”

Her words echoed softly in the empty cell. I didn’t respond.

“You have probably saved many lives. We are grateful for that.” She paused at the door, turning back to meet my eyes. “But your actions were reckless. We cannot let insubordination go without consequences.”

The door clicked shut behind her, and the stillness of the cell settled over me once more.

Healers had come too. They prodded and poked, muttered, and handed me potions in small vials. I drank them without question. It didn’t matter. I felt nothing. No heat. No pain. Just… heavy. My body was made of lead, my thoughts like smoke. Maybe they were giving me something to numb me. Calm me. Something to keep me from breaking.

Maybe I was just tired.

That first day, late at night, Locke came too. He stood in the doorway, his face unreadable, his clothes immaculate, as always; though he still looked troubled and tired.

“The Council is negotiating with the Crown,” he began—then fell silent for a long moment. I could feel his gaze on me as I continued staring at the ceiling. “We issued a joint statement. The Dusk appeared, the threat was contained. The kingdom is safe.”

I blinked at the ceiling. It was dark; the only light came from the corridor, through the barred door. 

“The Council is reinforcing wards across the capital,” continued Locke. “Magical containment protocols are in place. There's a lot being discussed. Plenty that needs to be examined and sorted through. And you... somehow, you are always right at the centre of it all.”

We spent another few hours in silence. Or maybe it was just minutes. I didn’t know. Time was acting strangely in this cell. 

Then Locke exhaled deeply. “The blood examination will be done tomorrow. You will be questioned, and the Council will have every answer we ask for — one way or another. If you want any control over what happens next… you have to be honest.”

Another long silence. I was silent, and he was silent as well. I knew he was holding himself back. He could have said so many things.

I knew he wouldn’t let things slide forever. There would be a conversation .

Maybe it was easier now to just lie here and stare at the ceiling.

“You are not being treated as a criminal. Not yet. Don’t change that.”

Not yet.

I took a deep breath, trying to hold back the tears.

“The armbands can make you feel weak,” Locke added, his voice softening. “It’s normal. But you have to take care. Move carefully. Drink plenty of water.”

The silence—the absence of magic—was suffocating.

A thought I didn’t want to have crept into my mind. There are criminals who wear these forever…

I didn’t ask. I couldn’t.

Maybe it would be better that way.

“There’s food too.” He glanced at the untouched tray on the small table. “You need to eat.”

I couldn’t imagine I would ever be hungry again.

Locke exhaled slowly. “I don’t like to see you like this, but you know why you are here.” There was a small pause, and I could feel his eyes on me as I continued to stare at the ceiling. “There are consequences. I’m not going to pretend it’s not deserved.”

I gulped, nodding. 

“Tomorrow, we will conduct the blood examination. After that, the Council will hear you.”

His footsteps echoed loudly as he left.

I rushed to the barred door. “Wait!” I stumbled, light-headed as I stood up so suddenly, but I grabbed onto the bars to steady myself. “Please, sir. Councillor Locke…”

Silence, as his footsteps stopped. He turned back toward me in the empty corridor. “Yes?”

“Did…” My voice was barely audible, hoarse. I had to clear my throat. “Did someone die?”

Locke sighed deeply. “Yes.”

I swallowed hard. My knees trembled, and I gripped the bars even tighter to stay on my feet.

“Not in the palace,” Locke added with a thoughtful look. “That’s where most of the magicians were, where the most help was. But the Dusk flooded the entire city.” His voice softened. “An assault like that… it’s impossible to prevent casualties. I’m sorry.”

I sagged back, slipping down on the floor.

I cried.

Lock stood on the other side of the bars, his back straight, his fingers twitching at his side. His face was unreadable.

I didn’t see when he left.

Then I returned to the bed and continued staring at the ceiling.

There wasn’t much else to do.

 

The next morning, Locke was standing at the cell door when I woke up.

I didn’t know how long he had been standing there; at first, I didn’t even notice I wasn’t alone. I spent the morning continuing my newest hobby, and after waking up, I stared at the ceiling above for a while. The bed was hard and uncomfortable. Thanks to the healers, I didn’t have any injuries, and in fact, nothing really hurt specifically; there was just a deep, dull, barely noticeable pain throughout my body, deep in my bones, in the blood crawling through my veins, in my too-slow thoughts… 

“How do you feel?” Locke asked, and I nearly fell out of bed as I jumped up in surprise. In an instant, he was next to me, holding my shoulder firmly until I regained my balance (his touch was soft and warm), and then, the next moment, somehow, he was standing at the door again, composed and authoritative, with his arms crossed and his shoulder leaning against the wall.

“Fine,” I mumbled with a shrug. 

“Good. Eat your breakfast.” He gestured toward the table, where the dinner from last night had vanished, replaced by a simple but hearty breakfast next to a water pitcher.

“I’m not hungry,” I replied.

“I don’t care. You have fifteen minutes to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“If you don’t start eating within a minute, I will feed you myself.” His tone was unyielding… the same as always.

I wanted to sink back into the hard mattress and ignore everything. 

Locke gestured towards the plate.

“I don’t understand,” I murmured. “Why do you care whether I eat breakfast or not?”

“Eat,” he said. 

I moved closer to the table with a quiet sigh. The food was cold, though not unpleasant.

Swallowing it felt like putting a spoonful of sawdust in my mouth.

Or ash.

Locke stood motionless, watching as I forced down a few bites.

I didn’t look at him as I chewed, staring instead at the cracked surface of the table.

I pushed the food around on my plate. Took a few reluctant sips of water.

More aimless prodding, more bites forced down with effort.

“Very well,” Locke said when I finally pushed the plate away. His voice sounded oddly gentle. 

I twisted a lock of hair around my finger.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor. Locke straightened, clearing his throat.

Through the barred door, guards entered. One of them held a pair of heavy, iron shackles linked with a thick chain.

“What the—”

“Stand up,” Locke said.

“What?”

The guards lifted me to my feet—not roughly, but with firm resolve.

“Is this really necessary?” I sneered. I wasn’t exactly a threat. I couldn’t use magic, and every single one of the guards looked both taller and broader than me. I’d improved—grown stronger, thanks to Locke’s merciless dawn training—but surely no one seriously believed I posed any danger to them… “Is this for the blood examination?” I asked, glaring at Locke. “Are you afraid I’ll run? Or what, I’ll summon the Dusk by bleeding artistically on the floor tiles?”

No one answered. The guards tightened the shackles and stepped away.

“You should know,” Locke said after a moment, his voice level, “there’s been a change in the schedule.”

I looked up, frowning faintly. “We are not doing the blood test?”

He tilted his head. “Later. First, you are receiving a visitor.”

The word sat oddly on my tongue. “Visitor?” 

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“The king.”

I stood completely still for a moment.

“The king,” I repeated eventually, my voice flat.

“Yes,” Locke replied. His expression didn’t change. The guards didn’t move.

“The king,” I said again, this time quite frantic. Something sharp twisted in my chest. “No. No way.”

“I assume you know how to behave in front of the monarch,” Locke said.

“Of course,” I snapped, even as my body had already started backing away—straight into the chest of a guard behind me. “I’ll bow, call him ‘Your Majesty,’ and ask if I can try on his fancy crown.”

My voice cracked near the end. 

More footsteps echoed down the corridor — heavy, deliberate. 

What the hell.

“I’m not meeting the fucking king,” I hissed, and the guards grabbed me as I was twisting, pulling—I don’t even know what I was trying to do. Run? Cry? Turn into a puddle and evaporate?

One of the guards grabbed my arms from behind, holding me still, and I jerked against him in blind panic. “Let go—let go of me—”

“Enough.” Locke’s voice didn’t rise. Didn’t waver. “Behave. Show respect.”

I tried to laugh. I think I did. Or maybe it was just some choked noise. 

Then people entered the cell—

—it was already crammed—

—it was happening too fast—

—and I lowered my head as far as I could, fixing my gaze on the floor as the guards pushed me down to my knees.

“Leave us,” said the King. 

Oh shit.

Footsteps echoed around us. Only one guard remained by my side; I could see just his boots from the corner of my eye, but even that was enough to recognise the royal guard.

Trembling, I kept staring at the cold stone floor before my knees.

The cell was silent. 

I could see the toe of the king’s boots in the edge of my vision.

I kept my head down, my hands shackled behind me, knees aching on the cold stone floor.

I could feel his eyes on me.

Shit. 

I didn’t dare breathe too loudly.

Then: “Your name?”

My mouth felt dry. “William Alden, Your Majesty.” It passed so smoothly.

A pause. I didn’t dare to move. 

“The year you were born?”

I tried to swallow, to count quickly, but the numbers got all tangled up in my head. “The… the ninth year of His Majesty’s reign.”

He hummed quietly.

“Where were you born?”

I blinked. “In… in Tamrava, Your Majesty.”

Silence. The guard next to me was still. I was still, staring down at the floor. The fucking walls were still around us. 

“Tamrava is a town in Hundley Moldal’s well-known tales,” said the king in a dry voice. “Not a real place.”

Fucking shit. 

My thoughts were not working right. 

He walked a slow circle around me.

“You appeared in the palace gardens. How?”

I clenched my fists behind my back. “Auric dust, Your Majesty.”

“The palace gardens are warded against magical travel.”

“I don’t know what happened.” That was true. “I didn’t mean to…”

Silence again.

He came to a stop in front of me. I felt his gaze boring into my bent head. My skin crawled.

Then he said nothing — for a long, stretching moment. The tension in the room was unbearable.

Finally: “Look at me.”

I didn’t.

He stepped closer. “ Look at me .”

I stared at the stone floor. My jaw locked. My breath was shallow.

A hand signal. I heard it more than I saw it — the rustle of armour, the quiet clink of metal — and then the gloved hand of the guard grabbed my chin and forced my face upward.

I hissed in discomfort.

The king stood barely a pace away.

His gaze was sharp, unreadable. Older than I remembered, but still tall, imposing. Carved from stone and silence. 

I wanted to close my eyes, to disappear.

My knees were aching from the cold stone.

The king was looking down at me with narrowed eyes, and the reality felt like broken shards of ice across my chest. 

“Happy now?” My voice came out low. Bitter. Only slightly trembling.

The king tilted his head slightly. “Careful. I could have your tongue removed for insolence.”

I rolled my eyes before I could stop myself.

And that—

Fuck.

For just a moment, everything froze. Something flickered across the king’s face. 

A breath caught. A muscle twitched. His eyes widened a fraction.

Something sharp, something painful. 

Disbelief? Sorrow? Regret?

And then it was gone, as quickly as it had come. He was still and pale. Carved from stone and silence.

I felt like I had been punched in the gut, and wanted to double over, to scream, to vomit, to disappear. 

But I couldn’t look away. 

He sighed. Suddenly, he seemed very old. Tired. Heartbreakingly sad.

“I see,” he murmured.

He didn’t move. He stood tall and broad, his hair and neatly trimmed beard still thick, but tinged with grey. 

“Twelve years, and you still roll your eyes the same way.”

Shit, no.

No, no, no.

“We… we couldn’t accept that you were dead. We searched for months. The whole army was looking for you.”

I was shaking, gripping the shackles around my wrist painfully hard.

“The fire…” His voice remained low and steady. “I still don’t know what happened. We nearly went to war, do you know that?”

I bit my lips, now trembling so hard the guard had to adjust his hold.

A deep exhale. “Is there anything you would want to tell me?”

Yes.

No.

Everything inside my head was a low, throbbing noise . 

The king kept watching me.

Then he exhaled again, long and low, and when I glanced up, his face was twisted with something raw and wordless. “And your mother…”

I squeezed my eyes shut, but that didn’t stop the tears.

Don’t—

“She never stopped looking.”

No.

“She still dreams of you.”

No no no no—

I doubled over. The chains pulled tight behind my back, but I didn’t care.

The king’s boots echoed dully against the stone as he turned and walked away. The guard followed a few steps behind, leaving me alone, kneeling on the cold floor of the cell. The heavy shackles bit painfully into my wrists, and I jerked against them hard, forcing the metal deeper into my skin.

Maybe it would have been easier, if I had died twelve years ago. 

 

*

 

The memories were still vivid, even though it felt like a lifetime ago. The same tightness in my chest, the same suffocating urge to do something.

As a child, when things became too much—the responsibilities, the lectures, the scoldings, the people—I usually went to the forest. It was ridiculously easy to avoid the guards and slip through a few back doors. Sometimes I just walked. Kicked at stones. Climbed trees. 

I remembered the first time I had stolen a horse. It was early in the morning, and the horse I picked was wild and beautiful. I remembered the reins slipping through my fingers as I kicked the horse’s sides, urging it faster and faster; through the palace grounds, across the fields, the wind whipping my face and bringing tears to my eyes. My heart had been pounding so loudly; we went deep in the forest, through valleys and streams, and my forehead was bleeding from the thin branches striking my face; and my mind was finally so free, so careless. The guards found me half a day later, lost in the woods, and I had to spend a fortnight confined to my quarters. 

I remembered climbing the highest tower. The stone walls had been slick with moss, the wind whistling in my ears, tossing my curls into my face. My fingers had slipped, and I had almost fallen twice —it felt like life. The sharpness of the wind. The dizzying heights. The weight of my body as I perched myself on the edge of the roof, looking down at the palace grounds below.

I remembered sneaking into the gardens in the moonlight, climbing over walls and sneaking past the guards, the air heavy with the scent of flowers and damp earth. The endless maze of trees, the creaking of old branches. The pond. The moonlight, the silence, the stars.

I hadn’t known yet what I could really do—magic.

Later, I used to sneak into the forest beyond the monastery walls. Sometimes during the days, mostly during the nights. When the weight inside me grew too sharp, too unbearable, I waited for the moon to rise and slipped out, barefoot, through the gardens and over the stone fence that lined the back of the grounds. I walked for an hour. The trees knew me there. The wind did, too. 

Out there,  I could let it all go. I would stretch out my arms and just let magic flow out of me, flow through me. Sometimes bright, lighting up the trees and sparkling below the starry night; other times powerful and furious and mowing down the trees, leaving behind a thick blanket of broken branches and fallen leaves.

I had learnt every existing incantation to control fire—and even a few that hadn’t existed before. I had learnt to control the wind like it was my first element. I could light a candle on the other end of the monastery. I could make the wind rustle through the chapel curtains, and I could make the wind howl through the building, the kind of wind that pulled at your hair and made the world tilt. I could let it whip around me, tear through me, scream for me.

I entertained myself in the monastery. A draft knocking over a candle. Papers flitting off the lectern in the middle of prayer. A door slamming shut hard enough to make old Brother Tolen flinch and drop his quill. I would stand there innocently and watch their puzzled faces.

And I remembered the tower. The highest point in the monastery—the bell tower, off-limits since the spiral staircase had started to crumble. I climbed it anyway. Right to the peak, the midnight before the winter solstice, when the wind was already uneasy. It was just a lazy switch of my wrist, calling the wind, and the sky cracked open. Wind screamed through the rafters, howled through the cloisters, rattled every shutter, slammed every door. Tiles ripped off roofs. One of the old sheds partially collapsed.

No one saw me control the wind. But they did see me—standing on top of the tower in the lightning-split dark, arms raised, screaming and shouting and laughing .

The monks thought I was ill. I insisted there was nothing wrong. That I felt perfectly fine. They couldn’t have known I had anything to do with the storm, but I was still in a forbidden place, so I was punished harshly—this was when I got my first caning. Not because of the tower, but because of my alleged disrespectful remarks while I was supposed to be reciting the hundred prayers of penance as punishment.

Still, that storm had felt better than anything.

I remembered the stolen books—the way I practiced magic in secret, using spells to erase any traces of my efforts. I endured the punishments without complaint whenever my strange absence drew suspicion, whenever I fell asleep during prayer because of exhaustion, whenever a spell went wrong and caused strange havoc; too afraid that arguing would only reveal more. 

I remembered the challenges. The time when I first tried shadow weaving. The time when I created an illusion of myself, sitting in the chapel, quietly and obediently murmuring the morning prayers. The time when I dared myself to learn every single incantation from a spellbook by dawn. My nose started to bleed halfway through the fifth hour. My hands were shaking by sunrise, magic clawing at the inside of my skull, but I could perform all the one hundred and seventy-five spells perfectly.

Then I came to the Sanctum. Became an apprentice. Everything that used to work just... stopped working.

So what have I been doing since then?

Maybe just trying to get on Locke’s nerves until he finally snaps.

 

For now, I simply knelt on the ground, trembling.

I saw myself—magic surging out of me, tearing down the walls of the cell, bricks scattered in rubble all around, dust rising into the air, my magic covering and embracing everything, until my heart no longer pounded like this...

I saw myself screaming, slamming my fists against the wall, tearing the shackles from my wrists, blood running, bones breaking—but at least my head wouldn’t be throbbing so violently anymore...

But I just knelt there, trembling, without magic, my hands chained behind my back.

Twelve years.

We searched for months.

She still dreams of you.

The cell was silent now.

My knees hurt. My wrists hurt. My heart hurt worst of all.

She still dreams of you.

I leaned forward and pressed my forehead to the cold stone floor. It didn’t help. 

I didn’t look up when I heard the door. Didn’t need to.

The footsteps were calm. Measured. Unhurried, even now.

Locke.

He stopped just inside the cell. No rustling, no movement — just standing there. Watching.

I stayed where I was.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low. Careful. “William–”

A sudden pause. Then a step closer.

“ Prince Arvil .”

My whole body jerked, once, quickly. His words echoed in my mind, over and over and over.

“What a fucking revelation,” I said to the stone floor in front of my face. 

My voice was cold. Dull. Empty. Didn’t even sound like mine anymore.

“William…” Locke's voice had the ability to sound both uncertain and reprimanding at the same time. “You–”

“Prince Arvil Thalen of Arundel.” The name burned my throat. My body couldn’t decide what it wanted. To suffocate? To burn? To scream in trembling fear or anger or shame? 

Locke was still just standing there.

I pulled at the shackles, willing them to draw blood.

Locke’s voice was low, hesitant. “I know this is not easy–”

I jerked upright in a flash, my knees shaking to keep me steady. My head was reeling as I gasped for breath. “Don’t,” I cut him off. My voice cracked, but I forced it to be cold. “Don’t fucking try to be nice to me.”

My hand clenched around the shackles behind me, pulling, desperate, raw. The iron bit into my skin, but I didn’t care. I just needed to do something. Anything.

“Why are you still here?” My words were sharp and too desperate. “You think you can just fix me? You think you can make it all better?” I was shaking, but my voice was loud now. “You’re fucking delusional .”

I yanked harder, feeling the skin on my wrists tear under the strain. A sick pain shot up my arm, but I ignored it gladly. “Why don’t you just leave? Go back to your perfect little life, to your perfect little Council, to your perfect—” I choked, blinded by the tears in my eyes. I wanted to bury my face in my hands, but the damn shackles were still forcing my arms behind my back. I yanked on them with all my strength. Locke’s hand was suddenly on my arm, but I didn’t care. Another pull. Locke swore as the bone in my wrist cracked.

“Stop.” His voice was low but firm. He was down on the floor beside me. “You are hurt. We should–”

I laughed, a short, breathless, ugly sound. “Hurt? I’m not hurt. I’m perfectly fine. I love this feeling. This is my favourite ever. This–”

“Let me help—”

“No!” My whole body flinched away from his touch, but I couldn’t get far. “Don’t touch me. Don’t fucking touch me.”

Locke didn’t move. He didn’t let go. “You are bleeding.”

I was fucking drowning. “Don’t pretend like you care. Just leave me the fuck alone.”

Locke stayed still. A slow breath in. “You are in shock. You don’t mean—”

“Don’t tell me what I mean, you smug, self-righteous prick ,” I snapped. “Gods, you always think you’re so composed, so in control. With your rules and your lectures and your goddamn discipline —” I cut myself off with a hiss, biting down on my tongue so hard I tasted blood. I wanted to vanish. To ignite. To tear the skin off my body.

Locke’s voice was barely a whisper. “I’m not going anywhere.”

I yanked at the shackles again, trying to get to my feet, and my broken right hand slipped out of the cuff, bloodied, ragged, and torn.

“You are not well, Will. Just breathe. Let me—”

The world spun.

I was standing—barely—but the ground was a blur beneath my feet. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.

“I didn’t want this.” My throat hurt, and I knew I was almost shouting, but my voice sounded so far away. Like in another life. “I didn’t want any of this. I don’t know – I don’t understand –”

Locke’s hand was on my shoulder, and he was saying something—I didn’t hear. I couldn’t feel anything anymore. I tried to shove him off, screaming, my broken hand useless, smearing dark red blood all over his white shirt.

“It’s all right–”

“Go away, go the fuck away–”

“I’m here. You are not alone–”

I shoved him again, this time harder, but my legs buckled beneath me, and I collapsed forward, my chest slamming into his. I tried to scramble away, but Locke grabbed both of my shoulders. I tried to kick, thrashing, trying not to choke on my tears. Locke wasn’t letting me go. He was holding me tight, his hands gripping my shoulders, too tight—like he could hold me together —

I had to laugh at the thought.

Somewhere beyond the haze, I vaguely registered how good it was that I had the armbands on—otherwise, there would probably be nothing left of the Sanctum.

Stupid fucking armbands. 

Footsteps. A murmur of voices—urgent, low, unfamiliar.

My legs kicked at Locke, at the floor, at anything I could reach. My whole body was shaking. I tried to aim for his shin, and managed to hit his knee—he didn’t even flinch. I tried to bite down on his hand, but I was so fucking weak…

My pulse was pounding in my ears, and I was suffocating, and Locke— Locke —was still there, and I wanted to tear myself apart, and I trashed even harder as there were people around us in the cell now, and I screamed and kicked at someone—

Guards. Healers.

Locke turned me around so that my chest was facing his. I buried my face in his shoulder, while the guards removed the shackles.

Then, a sharp pain in my arm. Cold. Distant. And I felt the heaviness spreading from the needle, down through my veins—

“No…” My voice was barely a scratch. “No—please…”

But my vision was already blurring, the edges fading to darkness.

I tried to keep fighting, but there was no strength, no power left in me.

There was nothing left.

The world tilted as I slumped against Locke. The chaos inside my mind was muffled. His arms were strong and firm around me. 

His voice was soft. Calm. We were next to the bed now, and I had no idea how we got there. “I’m here,” he whispered, his hands gentle as he lowered me down, keeping a palm under my head until it rested on the pillow.

Strange. Where did the pillow come from?

I wanted to keep fighting, but there was only a heavy emptiness inside me.

Locke’s voice was gentle. “Just breathe. You are safe now. I’m here, all right?”

I made a sound; weak, desperate, pleading.

His hands were cold against my burning skin. 

“Shh. Everything will be all right,” he murmured as I closed my eyes. “There’s nothing to worry about, I promise. Just sleep for a bit. Everything will be all right.”

Chapter 45: The Prince’s Tale

Summary:

A loooooong conversation

Notes:

I’ve really struggled with this chapter over the past two weeks (and with life too, lol).
I’m not completely satisfied, but I don’t want to get stuck here forever, sooo... please enjoy ^^

 

The ceiling of the cell was grey and smooth.

I lay on my back, one hand (my wrist fixed by a healer) resting on my stomach, the other dangling off the bed.

Locke stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his back against the wall. He didn’t speak, but I could feel his gaze on me. I didn’t speak either.

What would have been the point?

In the morning, guards and Councillors came—carrying trays, needles, and vials. Someone was explaining something about the blood examination.

They sat me up, and when I didn’t respond to anything, they unbuttoned my shirt and pulled it down off my left shoulder.

Cold hands felt around the crook of my elbow, then jabbed the needle into a vein. Blood trickled slowly into a test tube.

Then they left, and only Locke remained—Locke, the cell, and the deafening silence around us.

I stared at the ceiling. 

The Dusk was on my mind—the darkness swirling inside me as I got rid of them in the palace gardens.

The palace. The queen…

The king, here, in my cell.

Who would’ve thought I’d get visitors this distinguished?

Prince Arvil Thalen of Arundel.

The blood examination… Lysander.

I wasn’t supposed to be this . 

I let my fingers curl into the fabric of the bed. The healers made sure there was no more pain in my body… except this sharp ache deep in my chest.

The silence was suffocating. Locke’s silence. The silence of the cell’s ancient bricks. The silence of the absence of magic.

I missed magic like a lost limb. Or more like a lost head. A lost heart.

I thought that maybe it would be better if I never used magic again.

Locke shifted in the doorway. “Do you want to talk about it?” His voice sounded strangely cautious.

I didn’t respond. What would be the point?

“Will.” His voice was still soft.

Who the hell even am I anymore?

Or what the hell?

I didn’t want to hear what he was about to say. That eventually, I’d have to talk. That I’d have to speak in front of the entire Council. That I was dangerous. That I’d lied about everything. That I couldn’t stay here any longer.

“I owe you an apology,” Locke said instead.

I blinked. What?

He stepped closer cautiously—I immediately sat up and pulled myself into the far corner of the bed. Locke’s face looked sad, but he didn’t back away; he sat down on the edge of the bed as I wrapped the blanket tightly around myself.

“I’m truly sorry for everything that’s happened,” he said. “I can’t help but feel that, in some way, the course of events was partly my fault too.”

I stared at the barred door, noticing for the first time that it was, in fact, open.

“Please, let us talk about this,” Locke said. He reached out a hand, but I pulled away before he could place it on my knee.

The stupid wristbands stuck out from under my sleeve.

“So it’s your fault?” I said. “How cute. Glad we could make this about you, too.”

“I’m not trying to make this about me,” he said quietly, with the faintest trace of disapproval in his voice.

“You just said it was your fault.”

“I said I feel like it’s my fault. That’s different.”

“Right,” I nodded, shrugging, looking away.

Locke took a deep breath. “For a while now... I suspected that the appearance of the Dusk might be connected to you.”

“I have nothing to do with the Dusk,” I replied instinctively, my voice bitter and hollow.

“When the shadow hound attacked you in the Vivarium, there was a significant Dusk incident nearby,” Locke said.

“Nice work of the Dusk, then,” I shrugged.

Locke continued without flinching. “The Dusk kept reappearing after that... but it wasn’t until they showed up here, in the Citadel, that I realised—they always appeared when you weren’t wearing your talisman.”

“That’s bullshit,” I said. My voice sounded cold, flat—and terrified.

Locke looked cautious as he continued. “After you started wearing the talisman again, the Dusk-attacks stopped. I hoped I was wrong. That I was seeing patterns where there weren’t any.”

“There weren’t any.”

“Maybe if I hadn’t waited so long... maybe if I’d done something... things could have turned out differently.”

I stared at him for a moment, then tilted my head. “Right,” I said slowly. “Let’s pretend you were right. Let’s say you knew I was causing the Dusk to reappear. What then?”

Locke—the perfect, always composed, and always confident Locke—hesitated.

“What? Maybe you would have locked me up earlier?”

“It’s not–”

“How simple that would have been. You could have locked me in some deep, well-guarded cell, and I would never have caused any trouble.”

Locke flinched slightly at the suggestion. “Or maybe I would have tried to help you. Help you understand it, before it got this far.”

We sat in silence for a while.

How the hell could he have helped?

“I never wanted any of this,” I said at last.

“I know,” Locke replied gently.

“Any of this,” I repeated.

“I understand,” he said.

I laughed at that. “You don’t understand shit.”

I didn’t look at Locke, but even from the corner of my eye I could feel his disapproval. When I finally glanced at him, he gave a grim nod.

“You are right. Which is exactly why I want you to come upstairs with me, to my quarters, and talk about everything that’s happened.”

I snorted. “I knew there was going to be a talk.”

Locke only raised an eyebrow, then stood and offered me his hand.

I eyed it warily.

“So does this mean I’m not locked up anymore?”

“You can’t leave the Sanctum,” Locke said flatly.

“What a surprise,” I muttered, but I let him take my hand and help me to my feet.

“I mean it—you cannot leave the grounds of the Sanctum and the Citadel,” he said, straightening the collar of my crumpled shirt. “The armbands will prevent it. The magic is... painful. I wouldn’t recommend trying.”

He pulled me toward the door, but I dug my heels in just before the bars.

“I’m dangerous,” I said.

Locke raised one eyebrow and looked me over.

“You are exhausted, weak and barely healed,” he said, crossing his arm over his chest. “I will take my chances.”

I frowned at him. “You’re not funny.”

Locke held up a hand to silence me. “I’m not trying to be. I know that you are powerful. You are unpredictable. Emotionally unstable. You have a tendency to act reckless, to ignore all the rules and warnings. To disobey.”

“Well, thanks.”

“I’m saying that you are not malicious.”

“You could have said it more briefly.”

He just tilted his head. “Come.”

The corridor was dim and quiet, the light spheres in the lanterns casting long shadows on the stone walls. I hadn’t even spent two full days in the cell, yet it felt strange to be outside it; as if a thousand years had passed since the guards had cuffed me in the palace garden.

I fidgeted nervously with the sleeve of my shirt as Locke led the way: up from the basement—I didn’t dare to look at anyone as we passed the guards—through the wide corridors of the Citadel, across the garden, into the winding halls, staircases, and chambers of the Sanctum. I had imagined that Locke would sit me down in the chair opposite his desk, interlock his fingers under his chin, and not let me leave until I had answered every one of his questions; I could already feel his stern, demanding gaze and probing eyes on me... But instead, he only paused long enough in his office to hang his coat on the rack, then guided me through the salon and into his bedroom. By the time I realised what was happening, we were already standing in the bathroom, and Locke was heating the water in the enormous tub.

“Get in,” he said, pointing towards the water as he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows.

“But–”

“Undress and get in the tub, William.”

I swallowed hard, reaching for the clasp of my cloak. My fingers fidgeted with the cold metal.

“Does this come naturally to you?” I gestured vaguely towards him. “Or have you been practicing this a lot? You know, the whole ‘I’m the boss and you do what I say’ thing?”

Locke was standing by the shelf, searching among some small vials. He didn’t immediately respond, his back to me. “Excuse me?”

“Just wondering if there’s a book on your shelves somewhere, like ‘How to Sound Like You Are Always Right.’ Seems like you have read it many times.”

He turned back. “Why?” he asked. “Does it bother you?”

I opened my mouth—then saw his tilted head, his raised eyebrow, the twitching corner of his mouth. I gulped. “No.”

Locke nodded, like he had been certain this would be my answer.

“You are stalling,” he stated as he uncorked a small bottle and poured the pale blue liquid into the bathwater. It smelled sweetly, reminding me of meadows full of flowers and freshly babbling streams. 

“I’m not,” I said, but I finally unhooked the clasp of my cloak. “I’m just… making conversation. Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“Right now, I would like you to just rest in the bath for a while. Please undress and get in.”

I placed my cloak on a nearby chair and began unbuttoning my shirt. My movements were slow and careful as I watched Locke stir the water with one hand.

Rest in the bath for a while…

“I’m not going to go crazy on you again,” I said, a little grumpily.

“All right,” Locke replied calmly.

“You don’t need to fuss over me.”

“All right,” he repeated.

“But–”

Locke finally looked up from the water. “William.” He straightened, brushing his hands off on a towel. “You can argue with me after you have had a proper bath. Right now, I want you warm, clean, and a little bit calmer.”

I frowned, crouching down to take off my boots. “I’m calm.”

“William…”

“I am calm.”

He looked at me with a strange expression that was somehow both deeply unimpressed and irritatingly gentle. “You are arguing with me about how calm you are. Please. Get in the water.”

I glanced at him as he stacked a whole pile of soft towels beside the bath, but kept my mouth shut and slid out of my shirt. 

“Are you going to watch me the whole time?” I muttered. The lights in the bathroom were dim, but it still felt weird to step out of my trousers. 

Locke didn’t move, just folded a final towel and placed it neatly on the stool by the tub. “Would you like me to leave?”

I hesitated. Locke watched me carefully. In the end I just shrugged, avoiding his eyes. 

Locke took my hand and helped me to step into the tub, then lowered me slowly until I was sitting. The water was hotter than I expected, and a faint steam rose up around me. It smelled sweet and earthy. Spring in the forest. Rain on dry grass. 

“You’re not even pretending to leave,” I said, eyes closed, letting my head fall back against the edge of the tub.

“I thought you wanted me here,” Locke said mildly.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“You’re very…persistent.”

“That’s in one of the books, too,” Locke said, and I could hear the smirk in his voice. “Right next to How to Deal with Stubborn Apprentices Who Think They Are Fine When They Very Clearly Are Not.”

I let out a breath, quiet and uneven. When I spoke, my voice was barely above a whisper, “I know… I know I’m not fine.”

My fingers trailed the surface of the water, drawing faint ripples.

Locke didn’t say anything at first. I just heard the gentle rustle of his clothes as he shifted beside the tub, then the soft creak of wood as he settled on a chair next to the tub.

“You are safe,” he said at last. I tensed for a moment when he placed his hand on the back of my neck, but he waited until I relaxed into his palm. Then, carefully, he poured water over my hair from a shallow bowl. I trickled down my scalp, warm and slow. I closed my eyes.

“I know…” I said after a long pause. “I know you won’t want to be my master anymore.”

Locke didn’t move. The bowl in his hands stilled mid-motion. 

“Excuse me?”

I shifted uncomfortably in the bath. “You don’t have to do all these…” I made an uncertain gesture around, “nice things. I understand that I can’t stay.” I slid a little lower into the tub, until the water was licking at my chin. “This actually just makes it worse.”

Locke sighed. The bowl clinked softly against something, then—ignoring the fact he was getting soaked—he reached for my shoulders and gently turned me to face him.

“Listen to me very carefully, because I’m only going to say this once. You are my apprentice, and you will remain my apprentice for more than eight years yet. That’s it. Nothing changes that.”

“But–”

“Nothing changes that.”

“Right, but–”

“Nothing. Changes. That.”

I swallowed hard, then, still scowling, wrenched myself out of his arms. Water sloshed violently and spilled over the edge of the tub as I turned away, pressing my back against the wall.

“You said you were only going to say it once.”

“You are so stubborn sometimes,” he muttered.

I stared ahead at the tiled wall, trying to focus on the pattern of the tiny, glazed squares instead of the way my throat had tightened. My arms wrapped around my knees, pulling them close to my chest, resting my chin on the top.

“I’m not that stubborn,” I murmured.

Locke made a sound. The small ceramic bowl was in his hands again, and he tapped my nape, signalling for me to tilt my head back. “You are, in fact, impressively stubborn.”

Silence. The steam curled around us in slow, lazy spirals. I felt his hands—firm but careful—slip through my hair, separating the strands and gently combing them apart with his fingers. His touch was soft and patient.

“There’s this thing…”I began, “that we are magically bonded as master and apprentice?”

“Yes,” Locke replied.

“What does that even mean? I never really understood. What would happen if I wasn’t your apprentice anymore?”

He rinsed the soap from my scalp with slow, steady movements. “It’s a tradition,” he said. “The magic of the Torch of Enlightenment binds us together.”

“Okay, but what would happen? What exactly can some ancient goblet do to make sure I stay your apprentice? If I left, what then? Would some weird spell drag me back? Or would my left eyebrow twinge for the next eight and a half years? Seven years of magical bad luck? What?”

Locke’s hand stilled in my hair. “Do you want to leave?”

I stubbornly stared at the rippling water in front of me. “No.”

A beat passed.

“But…?”

“But I’ll have to, right?”

His voice sounded genuinely confused. “Why would you have to?”

I shrugged and kept staring at the water. “You’ll get tired of dealing with me,” I mumbled. “Or the Council will. Or…” or I’ll have to go back to the palace.

I was pretty sure I hadn’t said the last part out loud—but somehow Locke still answered it.

“Once you become an apprentice, you belong to the Council,” he said, rinsing my hair with slow, practiced care. “That’s it. Where you come from, or what kind of family you were born into—that’s secondary.”

I clenched my jaw. “Yeah, but… why would you even want–”

“William.” His voice was a bit louder now, and his fingers paused in my hair. “I have told you: nothing changes the fact that you are my apprentice.”

“You also said you’d only say that once…”

Locke sighed—a small, tired sound. “Yes, I said that. I also thought you might listen for once.”

I swallowed. 

Locke’s fingers moved slowly through my hair, massaging my head gently. Sometimes he twisted a lock of hair around his finger. The water poured warm and steady down the back of my neck as he rinsed the last of the lather away. I closed my eyes.

He set the bowl down with a soft clink, then reached for a soft cloth, soaking it before drawing it over my back. I sat in stunned silence. The cloth stroked over my shoulders in smooth, quiet motions.

 I kept my voice low, a little defensive. “I can bathe myself.”

“I know you can,” Locke said, utterly unbothered.

“Then you don’t have to–”

“Shh.”

I blinked. “But–”

“No.” His voice lowered—quieter now, but heavy with authority. “You don’t have to say anything right now, William.”

I opened my mouth to speak—then closed it, clenching my jaw. His hand found my shoulder, steadying me as the cloth dragged down my arm slowly. He was close enough now that I could feel the brush of his sleeve against my skin. When I fidgeted, his grip tightened on my shoulder, just a tiny bit, keeping me in place.

“Relax,” he murmured, his voice low, comforting. His fingers traced the curve of my arm, over my shoulder, then down to my wrist. I flinched as he touched the Kowlanow bands, but he didn’t show any reaction, just waited for my breathing to calm down again.

When I was clean all over, Locke took both my hands and helped me to my feet, holding me firmly when I swayed for a moment. I clung to his shirt, water trickling down his chest as I stepped out of the tub. There was a moment when I shivered in the cool air, then I was wrapped in soft towels, his arms around me. The warmth of his body seeped through the cotton of the towels—through my skin—right into my chest. I let myself lean into him slightly. 

His hand smoothed slow, careful circles between my shoulder blades, and I inhaled deeply, my forehead finding his shoulder. 

“It’s all right,” he murmured; and it sounded good, sounded comforting; whatever he was talking about.

He stepped back a fraction, just enough to shift the towel in his hands. With practiced care, he dried my hair, first with the towel, then with a quick spell that made me shiver a bit. His eyes never left mine, even as he moved to dress me. Shirt first—I lifted my arms obediently.

The clothes he dressed me in were my own—so somewhere through the haze of the scented foam and the smell of herbs, I realised that Locke had planned all of this in advance. 

I would have liked nothing more than to stay there forever—in the steam-filled bathroom, beside the tub of warm water, surrounded by the scent of chamomile and lemon balm.

I swallowed hard as Locke slowly guided me toward the door, one hand resting on my lower back. The bedroom was surprisingly bright; sunlight streamed in from outside. Locke gently steered me onward, towards the sitting room, towards the velvet chaise.

I sat down, suddenly a bit stiffly, avoiding his gaze.

Locke didn’t speak. He lit a blaze in the fireplace, arranged something on one of the shelves, and prepared tea on a small table, carefully bringing the water to a boil and measuring out the herbs. I watched him work out of the corner of my eye, keeping my gaze lowered to the dark blue carpet beneath me.

He poured the tea without a word, the ceramic clinking loudly on the wooden table. The scent of steeped herbs curled into the air—valerian, maybe, and peppermint, and something sharper beneath it, something grounding.

The teacup was warm when he handed it to me. My hands trembled slightly as I took it, ignoring the slight pain when a few drops sloshed over the rim, onto my fingers.

Locke sat on the other end of the chaise.

Then he just watched me.

I shifted, my legs too restless, the velvet too soft. My skin was still flushed from the bath. The fire crackled, and I could hear the wind pressing faintly against the windows.

Then Locke reached for something on the side table—a scroll of parchment. He looked at it, frowning, before he unfurled it slowly.

“There’s a lot we should talk about,” he said quietly, “so I made a list.”

I let out a disbelieving sound. “A list?”

“Yes.” He turned toward me, and indeed it was covered in writing—neat rows of Locke’s absolutely illegible scrawl, each line numbered on the margin.

“Is this all you want to talk about?” I asked, trying to sound casual. I swallowed hard. Locke’s handwriting was barely legible to me, but I could make out words like “past,” “fire,” “apprentice,” or “rules.” Ugh.

“I considered breaking it into categories,” he replied flatly.

I stared at the parchment. My mouth was dry, so I took a quick sip of the tea. It burned my tongue. 

Locke turned back to the parchment, sighed, and allowed the paper to curl back up.

“I would appreciate it if you could tell me about what happened,” he said at last.

Avoiding his gaze, I shifted uncomfortably. “In the bath, you wanted me not to talk.”

“I strongly believe that everything has its own time.”

I  let out a slightly melodramatic sigh. “What would you like to hear about?”

“Maybe it would be easier if you started at the beginning.”

“You mean like the beginning…of what? Human kind? The kingdom? Magic?”
His voice was soft and quiet. “The fire, William.”

I sighed, leaning back into the plush chaise. “Alright, fine. So, picture this: it was a pleasant, moonlit autumn night, rain battering against the windows like an impatient guest, when, for some reason, sleep wouldn’t come to me. The wind swept through the palace, rattling the shutters and fluttering the corners of the curtains eerily in the deserted halls of the night. No matter how much I tossed and turned, how tightly I squeezed my eyes shut, it was as if the night itself was determined to keep me awake. So, naturally, I—” I paused, glancing up, expecting to read impatience on Locke's face, but damn, he was still watching me, the same unreadable calm in his eyes, “So, naturally, I crawled out from under my soft, princely covers, left my silk pillows behind, slipped on my slippers, and quietly glided through the palace halls, like the ghost of the past or perhaps the future, silently and without a sound.”

I waited for some sign of irritation, but Locke simply leaned back slightly, not a flicker of annoyance on his face.

I frowned. This wasn’t going as planned.

“So…” I looked away, my fingers fiddling with the handle of the mug. “So I went to the library. Then there was a fire. I ran away. Then I didn’t go back. And you know the rest.” I lifted my gaze, sighing. “There was that one glorious, sunny, faithful autumn day when I visited the charming little market of a nearby town. It was a perfect day—clear skies, a bustling square, everyone leisurely going about their business, the stalls filled with all sorts of goods that any humble small-town commoner could desire, and everything was unfolding perfectly and peacefully until, through an unfortunate turn of events, I was accused of theft…”

Locke’s face didn’t even flinch. “You did try to steal that book,” he said flatly. 

“Well, I…” I caught his gaze. “Yeah. Sorry.”

Silence stretched between us as Locke sipped his tea. I glanced down at mine, my fingers—pale and trembling—clutching the handle. His voice was soft when he spoke again, each word chosen with care. “I know this is extremely hard to talk about.” He let the weight of that hang in the air. “We have time. You don’t have to rush.”

The reality of it hit me then: Locke had the ability to sit here and wait. He could sit here for hours, letting the silence stretch between us without flinching. He could remain still, patient, unwavering. He could wait forever.

I, on the other hand...

I swallowed hard and wiped at my face.

Locke took the cup from my pale, trembling fingers with gentle hands, casting a quick spell to pull a small table closer to me, placing the cup with a soft clink within arm’s reach. Then he drew me even closer, and I shifted slightly, allowing him to wrap one arm around my back while the other gently tilted my head onto his shoulder, soft and careful. I pulled my socked feet up, tucking them beneath me on the dark blue velvet of the chaise. 

It was so weird. 

The space between us was tight, and I could hear every breath I took, every shift of clothes as I fidgeted. He was warm against me, and solid, too much and too comforting, but I still leaned in, allowing my body to relax.

Time passed in silence.

It seems that I am indeed able to sit quietly and wait, as long as I am held tightly in an embrace.

Fuck. 

I had to clear my throat. “I… I lied about my first element,” I said in a low voice.

Locke didn’t move, but I could feel his breathing change. “I figured,” he murmured. 

“So I... went to the library when I couldn’t sleep. The palace had a huge library, I mean… before it all burnt down…They kept the books on magic locked away, of course, but at night it wasn’t hard to sneak in. There was nothing unusual about that night, I’d done it plenty of times before. I sat under a table and read. Of course, the thought crossed my mind that I could become a magician, but just like how I think every child wonders sometimes... when we still believe it would be so cool to magically conjure up a big slice of chocolate cake, or turn the nose of our siblings blue, or finish our homework in an instant... My teacher always made me write these multi-page essays on the world’s most boring topics, probably just because he hated me since I once said he looked like a goblin shark... Anyway, sometimes I did read books about magic, just for fun, and because they often had really nice pictures in them. Nothing strange happened... then I fell asleep, right under that table. And when I woke up, half the damn palace was in flames, and somehow, I knew… I knew instantly that it was my fault.”

I felt Locke’s hand tighten slightly at my shoulder. 

“Everything was covered in smoke,” I went on, quietly. “I was inside the fire. In the flames. All I could hear was screaming…guards shouting, people running. And this noise, this horrible cracking sound—like something collapsing…”

My voice broke. I glanced at Locke, and he was staring at me, his jaw set, his face unreadable. I gulped—and his face instantly softened. “It wasn’t your fault, William.”

“I don’t really remember exactly what happened,” I said. “Not clearly. I remember... the taste of smoke in my mouth. I remember a deep crimson curtain that burned away in an instant. And then just that I was in the city, running, and...” My fingers found the thin scars on my forearm through the fabric of my shirt. “...my arm was bleeding where I’d carved the runes. I still don’t know how that book of the Runeveil Ward ended up in my hands, or what I used to carve the runes into my skin. I just wanted to disappear.”

I let out a long, shaking breath. Locke sighed next to me, his shoulders rising and falling slowly. He kept his arm steady around me, occasionally rubbing small circles on my back. He reached out and took my trembling hand.

“You are safe now,” he murmured. “That was a long, long time ago. And you were really brave, William, really brave.”

I stayed silent.

It would’ve been nice to argue with him. That’s nonsense. There was nothing brave about what I did. I burned down half the palace and then ran away.

But it also would’ve been nice to hold on to his words and wrap myself up in them like in a soft, warm blanket.

We sat in silence for a while—I was practically lying against his shoulder—while Locke absentmindedly stroked my back.

“What happened after that?” he asked at last. “How did you end up at the monastery?”

I gulped, looking around the room: the fire in the hearth, the heavy curtains framing the windows, the soft carpet on the floorboards… it all looked so comfortable. So cosy. 

“I remember… walking. Through the woods, mostly, towards the mountains.” My voice sounded far away, like I was telling someone else’s story. “I just remember that I walked and walked, day and night. I walked until my feet were bleeding. I remember abandoned buildings and cold nights and wind blowing through my clothes…”

All Locke said was, “Oh, William.”

I looked down at our hands—his fingers steady and sure around mine—and swallowed the ache rising in my throat. 

“Once I ate something poisonous,” I murmured. “Some kind of berry, I think. I thought I was going to die.” I gave a hollow laugh. “I can’t really remember much from those days.”

Locke’s hand tightened slightly around me—one holding my hand, the other curving around my shoulder. 

“But it had that dark brown colour,” I added. “The berry, I mean. It was the first thing I used to paint my hair.”

Locke’s hand lifted from my shoulder, fingers brushing gently through the strands. He twisted one around his finger, slowly, almost absently.

“And what have you been doing with it since then?” he asked softly.

I bit my lip and raised my hand as well. The strands curled around my fingers almost by themselves, slipping easily through them—and the fucking armbands stopped me from the usual feeling of magic weaving into my hair.

I huffed. “It’s just…” I made a flick with my fingers, the old, familiar gesture of weaving. Easy. Natural. Nothing.

Locke’s hand snapped out and caught my wrist, yanking my arm away. “What on earth are you thinking,” he seethed.

“What?” Though his voice was quiet, mine had risen slightly. “I can’t do magic,” I snapped, waving the armbands into his face. “In case you’d forgotten…”

Locke didn’t even glance at them. “We do not weave magic into ourselves.”

 “I’ve been doing this for a decade–”

He shot me a dark look. Then he very pointedly let out a long sigh, slowly releasing the breath, and by the time he looked at me again, his face had settled into its usual unreadable expression. “We do not weave magic into ourselves,” he repeated.

I rolled my eyes. “Well, I know. It’s just my hair. It’s not like I would–”

Locke’s fingers tightened around my wrists.

“No,” he said flatly. “Don’t even finish that sentence. We do not weave magic into living beings.”

“I know,” I muttered, wincing a little.

“Doesn’t seem like it. If you’re threading spellwork into your own body—”

“But it’s just my hair!”

“You know what happens to magicians who weave magic into their own bodies, do you?”

“I do. But it’s–

“Just your hair, I know. “You have read Principles of Safe Channeling , haven’t you?”

I nodded reluctantly.

Locke’s voice stayed quiet. “Chapter nine?”

I didn’t answer.

“Go on,” he said, almost gently. “Tell me what chapter nine is about, William.”

I swallowed hard. “ Misapplications of Spellweaving .”

His eyes didn’t leave mine. “I’m sure you can remember a few examples.”

I groaned, sighing. “I know what you’re getting at. People turning to stone. Losing their voices. Dying.. They wanted to remember everything and ended up unable to forget anything, went mad from their own thoughts and slaughtered half a village before throwing themselves into the river… I get it.”

Locke’s expression didn’t so much as flicker. “Do you?”

Silence.

The fire popped softly.

Locke exhaled, slow and steady. “So you, William—you thought: yes, I will just thread a glamour into my living hair every morning, and call it harmless.”

“It’s not every morning–” 

His eyes flashed sharply, and I shut my mouth, gulping. 

He shook his head, and when he spoke next, his voice was a tiny bit softer. “There are a million spells to change your appearance or dye your hair, and most are completely harmless. Why did you have to use spellweaving?”

I hesitated, then muttered, “Because it’s the only way to make the hair grow out already in this color. Not just dyeing it afterward. I needed it to look natural.”

Locke sighed again. His fingers loosened and brushed lightly over the inside of my wrist.

“You know...” he said quietly, “no one truly knows how Lysander Langston created the Dusk. Most believe he went to great lengths to bury the truth—but…”

“He said there are spells protecting it,” I interrupted, though I had no idea how we ended up on this topic. “That you can’t talk about it.”

Locke glanced at me, lifting one eyebrow thoughtfully. “Did he?” A pause. “Well. That wouldn’t surprise me.”

He looked toward the fire, then back at me. His voice was steady now—careful, almost clinical. “In any case, the prevailing theory is that part of the process involved weaving magic directly into people’s minds. Not their memories, not illusions. Not a verbal spell, not a curse, not an enchantment. Actual spellweaving threaded into thought, perception, identity.” He paused for a moment. “It’s forbidden for a reason, William.”

I stared at him, swallowing hard. He held my gaze, his dark eyes steady and unblinking, and the sun outside choose this exact moment to disappear behind a thick cloud, casting even darker shadows across his face. 

“I understand,” I sighed. “I’d never even think about weaving spells into my mind, all right?” His face was still the same, hard set, strict. “Even though I hadn’t done it before either, so I don’t see why there’s such an overreaction right away? I only ever did it with my hair…”

Locke’s eyes narrowed, and I had a sudden urge to pull away, far from his disapproving gaze… but he was also keeping his hand on my lower arm, warm and steady, and somehow that kept me rooted where I was.

“William,” his voice was quiet but firm. “It’s that attitude that worries me. Spellweaving into yourself, even just your hair, is reckless. Dangerous. I want you to understand that it was sheer, absurd luck—or perhaps your own reckless power—that you survived it.”

I bit my lip and stayed silent as he sighed, pulling me a bit closer to himself. 

“Promise me you won’t ever do it again,” he said quietly. 

“I do,” I muttered.

“Good. I’m glad we agree.” His eyes never left mine. “And remind me, just so we’re both clear—why won’t you be doing it again?”

I huffed, more out of habit than defiance. “Because you’re mean and say so?”

He let out a small breath. “Hm. And what else?”

“Because it’s dangerous.”

“Exactly,” he said. Then, after a pause, added, “And also because if I ever catch you threading spellwork into your hair again, I will put a binding on your fingers.”

I drew back just enough to blink at him. “You wouldn’t.”

“I absolutely would.”

“You—ugh. Fine. But it won’t happen anyway, because, as you know, I can’t use magic.” I flexed my wrists a little, the armbands smug around my wrists. Locke’s gaze flickered to them, just briefly, then he sighed and curled an arm around my shoulder, drawing me back into his hold.

His hand lifted, fingers raking gently through my hair. Then, softly, he added, “But your hair is very soft, by the way.”

His chest rose and fell steadily against my side. The fire cracked, and I blinked at the hearth, staring into the flames…

Fuck the flames—we were snuggling .

I became sharply, embarrassingly aware of it—the weight of his chin lightly resting near my temple, the warmth of his breath ruffling my curls. His fingers in my hair, soft and gentle. 

I huffed, annoyed, and snuggled a bit closer to him. 

Locke’s hand slipped down to my shoulder. “So… you were just about to tell me about the monastery, right?”

I groaned and buried my face in his shoulder. “No.”

“You were at the part where you headed towards the mountains. Did you even know that the whole country was looking for you?”

I shrugged reluctantly. “I suspected. The royal guards could be evaded, but magicians… so I clung to that book. I remember it was all dirty and muddy, but I read it all. After I learned to use the Runeveil Ward properly—”

“Carving into your skin? That is definitely not the proper way to use the Runeveil Ward, William.”

I huffed, scowling. “Well, it worked. Now do you want to hear what happened, or are you just here to lecture me?”

Locke took a measured breath, his voice steady but softer than before. “I’m not trying to lecture you, but what you did was… incredibly dangerous. You were lucky—miraculously lucky—that your power was strong enough to survive it.”

“This sounds quite like a lecture to me,” I murmured.

Locke was quiet for a moment. Then his hand, still resting on my shoulder, tightened slightly. “I know,” he said finally. 

I huffed, looking away. “Whatever. So I reached the mountains, but it was already winter, and I could barely make any progress. I kept breaking into places to sleep, and if it was warm enough, it was really hard to make myself move on again. And well…”

I trailed off.

“You didn’t even know where you were going?” Locke finished the sentence for me.

“Not really,” I replied quietly, leaning back onto his shoulder. “So one night I holed up in one of the monastery’s barns… and well, I ended up staying.”

“Just like that?” Locke raised an eyebrow.

“Just like that,” I nodded.

“You knocked on the door the next day and asked for shelter?”

I bit my lip. “You could say that.”

Locke raised an eyebrow again. “You could say that?”

With an annoyed sigh, I straightened up. “Fuck, you only care about the details so you can lecture me on everything I did wrong.”

I was about to stand up to storm off angrily, but Locke’s fingers closed around my arm and yanked me back onto the couch. I landed with a soft thump, my legs flailing.

“I’m sorry if it came across that way,” Locke said. “I don’t think you did anything wrong.”

“Oh, really?” I glared at him, then at his fingers still wrapped tightly around my forearm. “Then maybe take off these stupid cuffs so I can weave some more magic into my hair and carve some runes into my arm, yeah?”

Locke didn’t take the bait. In fact, he looked calmer than before. He nodded solemnly. “You are right. I’m sorry. I would like to listen to you, please.”

We stared at each other for a while, but of course, I was the one who gave in first. I bit the inside of my cheek, looked around the room just to avoid looking at him, squirmed a little... but Locke was still watching me with the same calm patience.

“Ugh,” I sighed. “So I stayed in the barn for a few days. I… you’re going to judge me for this.”

“I promised I wouldn’t.”

“Yeah, sure. So one of the reasons the monastery’s barn was a good place was that the estate and the buildings were big enough, but the monks weren’t that many, and they regularly all withdrew for prayer and such. It was super easy to get myself some warm blankets, some food from the pantries, and they even had a library…” I trailed off.

Locke’s eyebrow rose ominously, but he didn’t say a word. He still hadn’t moved his hand from my arm.

“You can probably guess what happened,” I muttered.

“The monks caught you stealing,” he replied dryly. Not a hint of question in his tone.

I gave a tiny, reluctant nod, waiting for the scolding.  

It didn’t come. Locke just continued to look at me with that unreadable expression, saying nothing, so I eventually went on, “I was sloppy that night. Tired. I was sneaking down a hallway, my pockets stuffed with half the pantry, a book in my hands—one I didn’t yet know was particularly rare and valuable… …and I walked right into one of the monks as I turned a corner.”

Locke didn’t respond right away. His thumb moved—just once—rubbing lightly over my sleeve, a thoughtful, almost unconscious motion.

“I bolted,” I added. “Just… tried to run away. I have no idea what I must have looked like... I hadn’t spoken to anyone in months by then. I hadn’t even been near people.”

A pause. Then his voice, low: “And then?”

I let out a small, bitter laugh. “Well, then I tripped running down the stairs, knocked my head, and woke up three days later in their infirmary.”

Locke still didn’t speak. But his fingers left my arm, wrapping yet again around my shoulder.

“I wasn’t…” I cleared my throat. “I probably wasn’t in very good shape. I spent quite a bit of time in the infirmary. By then, I had learned to dye my hair with a simple charm, but even so, I was so scared I’d give myself away somehow that I didn’t speak a word for weeks.” I laughed shortly, a half-bitter, half-fond sound. “I think some of the monks only voted yes when they were deciding whether I could stay because they thought I was a quiet and well-behaved child.”

Locke made a sound in his throat—something between a scoff and a sigh.

“I was ,” I insisted, lifting my chin. 

“You were sneaking around at night, stealing books and practicing spells,” he said flatly.

“That’s beside the point,” I sniffed. “During the day, I was perfectly polite. I helped in the kitchen and in the gardens, learned to bind and copy books, followed the schedule like clockwork. I didn’t even open my mouth a single time during the silent breakfast. I mean—well—I opened my mouth, obviously, but just for food, and—” I stopped, feeling my cheeks turn to pink, because my brain—that taritor—decided that now was the perfect time to think about other things that could maybe go in my mouth.

I didn’t look at Locke.

He only said “Hmm.”

The silence stretched, and I cleared my throat, forcing myself to shake off the sudden awkwardness.

Locke sighed. “And then?” 

I shrugged. “Well, you know. I borrowed all kinds of books. I learned what I could.”

He furrowed his brow slightly. “ Borrowed ,” He muttered, then shook his head, exasperated. “Considering how reckless and dangerous that was, I have to admit—you achieved some really impressive results.”

I blinked, then chose to glare at him. “Well, thanks? I had… I had to learn to control my powers, didn’t I?”

Locke was quiet for a long moment. His eyes stayed on me, but they weren’t sharp now—just watchful, weighing something silently.

Finally, he said, more gently this time, “Yes. You did need to learn control.”

I swallowed, a bit thrown by the shift in tone. “Exactly.”

Locke was still watching me, carefully now. “But you shouldn’t have to do it alone.”

I tensed, my gaze slipping away, tracing a stray beam of sunlight across the carpet.

“You could…actually, should have gone to the Academy,” he said softly. “ItThat’s ’s what it’s there for.”

I didn’t answer.

“You knew that.”

I looked away, jaw tightening. “The Academy is in the capital.”

“Yes,” he said slowly. “Not far from the palace.”

I bit my lip, sitting absolutely still.

Locke’s voice dropped even lower, almost hesitant. “Will… I understand that what had happened to you must have been incredibly hard and frightening. You were so young.” He paused, his tone softening even more. “I don’t blame you for anything. You didn’t do anything wrong. But—can you tell me why you didn’t go back? Why you didn’t return to the palace?”

I didn’t answer right away. Just stared down at the floor, jaw clenched so hard it ached.

“I burned half the palace down,” I said at last, voice dry and brittle. “So no, I didn’t think anyone would be thrilled to see me again.”

Locke didn’t respond, just tilted his head to the side.

I exhaled through my nose; probably tried to laugh, but it came out tight and sharp. “I mean, what was I supposed to do? Go home? Face everyone? How do you explain something like that?” My voice was high but hollow. “Hey, sorry I vanished and let everyone think I was dead. I just ran off after torching my own home. No big deal.” I shook my head, hating the way my voice cracked. 

Locke remained silent; he only placed his hand on my knee, giving it a careful squeeze.

I scrubbed a hand over my face, furiously blinking the wetness away from my eyes. “I’ve been an idiot since the start. Everything I’ve done— everything —has just made it worse. My whole life is one giant fucking mistake.”

There was a long pause.

Then Locke said, quiet but steady, “You were a scared child.”

I shook my head. “No, I was a fucking idiot.”

“You were a scared child,” he repeated, more firmly this time. “A terrified child who made one desperate decision in a moment no one your age should have had to experience.”

“Well, the whole experience in the first place was my fault–”

“None of what happened was your fault,” Locke said, and his voice rang out with the same firm certainty it usually held when he was scolding me. I felt myself tense slightly at the sound. “You were a child. Many magician children struggle when their magic manifests. You were scared, and you were alone. I understand that it spiralled so far that after some time, returning started to feel impossible, didn’t it?” I nodded; a small, reluctant, desperate movement. “You survived,” Locke said simply. “You learned. Now, you are here.”

“Here?” I murmured, wiping away my tears with the back of my hand. My wrist trembled slightly in the grip of the Kowlanow bands as I bit my lip, staring at them. “This must be exactly how my father must have imagined seeing me again: locked up, wearing these damn things. Found out I was a magician, and figured right away I must be a shitty one too.”

Locke let out a deep sigh. He leaned back on the sofa, rubbing his face tiredly with one hand.

“Yes, the last few days haven’t exactly gone the way anyone planned. But right now, you are safe. It seems like everyone is safe. The Council… the Council’s plan is to not rush things in the coming weeks. We have time—to plan, to think, to explore.”

“Right, because as long as I’m wearing these damn things, I’m not going to accidentally summon the Dusk in some weird, mysterious way?” I snorted. “What a relief.”

Locke hummed something, then reached out slowly, fingers brushing against my arm. “Even if that’s really true,” he said, quiet but unwavering, “even if the Dusk is drawn to your power… that still doesn’t make it your fault.”

I stared at him. “Are you kidding? People died. Actually, fucking died . And it just keeps showing up where I am. How is that not my fault?”

“Because you are not the one killing anyone, ” Locke said firmly. “Because you didn’t ask for this. Because you are not choosing it. And because you are doing everything you can to stop it.”

I huffed, raising my eyebrows. “What am I doing? Wearing this shit?” I jabbed at the armbands. I let out a shaky breath, but I still couldn’t look at him. “I don’t know how to fix any of this,” I said. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“You don’t have to fix everything,” Locke said. “You don’t have to have all the answers. That’s exactly why we are going to take things slowly. Examine everything, talk through everything. We will have time to find the best solution.”

“But if, maybe…” I began slowly, “If I really am a descendant of Lysander Langston, then the Council can use my blood to control the Dusk, right? So in the end, it… it could all work out, couldn’t it?” I tried to keep any trace of hope out of my voice.

Locke hummed thoughtfully. “It’s possible.” He let out a heavy sigh, then leaned forward to pick up the parchment from the side table—the one he’d written his list on. Slowly, with a troubled expression, he unrolled it.

“How many points have we covered so far?” I asked, a touch sarcastically.

Locke shot me an unamused look, then ran his eyes down the list. “One,” he said flatly.

“One?” I stared. “You mean to tell me we’ve been through all that and we’ve only gotten through one of your points?”

He didn’t answer. Just set the parchment back down slowly. When he turned to face me again, his posture was straight, his expression dark with quiet authority.

“I know you were tense about the blood examination,” he began, “and I understand that what happened—”

“You don’t need to finish that sentence,” I cut in, hoping to avoid another lecture. “I know, I know. I should’ve talked to you instead of stealing the Auric Dust and running off. You’re right. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again”"

I paused for a moment.

“Anyway, look at me—didn’t even get anywhere with it. I ended up exactly where I was trying not to be.”

Locke tilted his head, humming slightly. 

“There’s a lot we still need to talk about,” he said. “We could start with the part where you attacked Gavin Prescott.”

I blinked. 

“I thought we already talked about that last time,” I said, trying to brush it off.

Locke barely lifted an eyebrow. “I think it’s safe to say the kingdom’s best magical healers are here at the Citadel. And yet—three days, and Gavin is still in the infirmary.”

“Well, if he just bumped his head when he fell, there are plenty of good spells for that–”

Locke cut me off, his voice cold and sharp. “Gavin’s magical power was so disrupted by your uncontrolled blast that he’s been unconscious ever since.”

Well. Shit.

I swallowed hard. “I panicked. He was mocking me… I didn’t mean for it to get that out of hand...”

“You are not allowed to attack a fellow apprentice. You should know by now that this kind of violent, uncontrolled behavior is completely unacceptable.”

I clenched my fists, glaring at the fucking armbands around my wrists. “Look, I didn’t start it. I was just trying to eat my breakfast in peace when he started picking a fight. You should be scolding him, not me.”

“Whether he started it or not, you are responsible for your own actions. And you need to start thinking about how you are going to make amends for what you did.”

“Make amends ? No way.” I shook my head quickly, my voice sharp with disbelief. “I’m not begging Gavin for forgiveness. Just punish me if you have to.”

“Of course you will be punished. That’s not up for debate. But punishment won’t fix this. It won’t help Gavin.”

“ I won’t help Gavin, either. You can cane me, or whatever you want.”

Locke looked amused as he raised an eyebrow. “This isn’t just about punishment. It’s about restoration—repairing the damage you caused, as much as you can.”

I groaned in frustration. “That was a point on your stupid list? To talk about how I should apologise to Gavin?” I asked. “Are the rest going to be just as fun?”

Locke sighed. “I want us to be able to talk , William.”

“Actually, that’s not even my real name,” I muttered, mostly just to change the subject.

Locke hummed thoughtfully. “It really isn’t,” he agreed. “That’s another point you could tell me about, please.”

I groaned again, throwing my head back on the couch. Turning to the side, I pulled my legs up in front of me. “This is starting to feel like some sort of interrogation,” I muttered.

Locke fixed me with a piercing, unblinking stare.

Oh, fuck.

“‘William’ is pretty common,” I shrugged. “And it was easy to answer to, since people used to call me Vil before. You know, from Arvil. And I got ‘Alden’ from a graveyard—I saw it on a tombstone while I was staying a few days in a crypt. Not great, by the way; cold and damp. Pretty sure I caught a nasty cold there.”

“Interesting…” murmured Locke.

“Crypts are usually dark and cold,” I said.

“I meant your name,” Locke clarified. “Names have power.”

I just shrugged.

“You have used ‘William’ longer than ‘Arvil’,” Locke added thoughtfully.

I remained silent.

“Which reminds me—you lied about your age to the Council, too, William.”

Still silent. It was surprisingly easy. Maybe if I don’t say anything, Locke will conduct the conversation alone.

But the questioning look he gave me suggested otherwise. “Well?” he prompted.

“Well?” I echoed.

“You are supposed to still be at the Academy.”

“I turned twenty-one this winter,” I replied. “I’m no lon—”

“You would be graduating this summer,” Locke cut me off. “You are supposed to still be at the Academy .”

He looked at me with such a stern expression that I wavered a little. “You’re not thinking of sending me there… are you?”

Locke tilted his head and spent a moment simply studying my face. I looked back at him for a second, then quickly glanced away.

“It wouldn’t make sense,” he said at last. “You are already an apprentice.” His gaze stayed just as stern, but there was the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his lips as he added, “And quite a talented one. I doubt the Academy has much left to teach you.”

Wait—was that a compliment?

“Except when it comes to sigils,” I shrugged.

Locke’s jaw tightened slightly, but he gave a slow, reluctant nod.

“Or protective rituals,” I added.

He sighed.

“Or healing spells.”

“We will make a little more time for those.”

“What for?” I huffed bitterly, holding up the damned armbands.

Locke—like it was the most irrelevant thing in the world—just waved a hand dismissively. “The important thing is that you are an apprentice of the Council now. You are not going anywhere.” He was silent for a moment, just watching me again. Then, with a soft sigh, he leaned forward and glanced at his list. “Let’s discuss the events in chronological order. Can you tell me…” He tapped the list once with a finger, furrowing his brow. “Well, can you tell me what possible, stupid, destructive thought went through your pretty little head when you decided to steal and use my Auric Dust?”

I gulped. Not knowing what to do with my hands, I reached for my teacup—but it was empty. 

Locke must have taken pity on my downcast expression, because he stood with a sigh and poured me a fresh cup of tea from the magical teapot. Steam curled around his fingers in a valerian root and chamomile-scented cloud as he handed me the cup.

I took the cup like it might shield me from the conversation, but sadly, it didn’t eradicate Locke’s expectant expression.

I sighed. “Well, I figured if my life was going to be destroyed, I might as well do it with style.”

Not even a twitch of amusement on Locke’s face.

I swallowed, the warmth of the tea spreading through the coldness in my chest. 

“I was– I was scared.” I added finally, in a much quieter voice. “You were about to force me to do the blood examination. And I didn’t want to wait around to be…you know, dissected.”

Locke nodded, inhaling slowly. He was still so close to me; I was curled up, sideways, and my toes almost touched his thigh. He closed his eyes for a moment. 

“I understand why you panicked,” he said at last. “I know the examination terrified you. I know you feared that it would bring back things you weren’t ready to face.” He paused, fingers drumming once against his knee. “But Auric Dust is classified. It is illegal to use without authorization, without training.”

He let the silence sit for a while, and I sipped my tea, avoiding his eyes.

“Do you even know what it does to a body that can’t control it?” he asked, low and cold. “Sometimes you only get lost in nothingness—then you might find your way out, or could be saved from the outside. Sometimes you simply stay there until you die.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t–”

“If you are a bit less fortunate,” added Locke coldly, “If you can’t focus, if you don’t know where you are heading; then the Auric Dust takes over your powers. It corrodes your magical pathways. And then, if you have enough magical power for that—and we both know you have more than enough—then it starts burning you from the inside out. Slowly . Sometimes it takes days.”

I gripped the teacup tighter, gulping.

“I have seen it,” Locke went on. “I have smelled it. A scholar of the Council tried to refine a microdose once—under supervision, mind you—and the moment his concentration broke, the Auric Dust turned on him. He died screaming.” His eyes narrowed. “And he was trained and authorised for using Auric Dust.”

A beat of silence. His face was hard, his body tense beside me.

“I don’t know…” He trailed off, taking a deep breath. “I don’t know what to think or how to feel now. I was absolutely furious that you took off your talisman without permission—had you been wearing it, a lot of things might have gone differently—but, realistically, your excessive magical power is probably the only reason you survived that reckless, foolish, thoughtless stunt with the Auric Dust.” He narrowed his eyes. “Your magic and pure blind luck.”

“I don’t…I don’t know,” I started. “I didn’t think that–”

“You didn’t think ,” Locke snapped, and his fingers curled on his knee. “At all.”

I gulped, staring at the dark blue carpet beneath the chaise.

“You didn’t think,” Locke repeated, quieter, but also somehow harsher. He stood suddenly, and crossed the room in a few long strides to the window. He braced one hand against the frame, the other curling into a fistbefore he forced it open.

I didn’t dare to speak.

“I know you were terrified,” he said in a tight voice. “I know that. I keep going over it, wondering what I should have done differently... but every time I think back to that moment when you grabbed the Auric Dust, I have to admit—I simply didn’t believe you could use it. Not even after everything I’ve seen your magic do these past months. Not even knowing you weren’t wearing your talisman. After all, the Auric Dust isn’t supposed to work inside the Sanctum. You don’t even know how to use it.”

He trailed off. His shoulders rose and fell with a sharp breath, and I sat motionless and silent, because fuck, Locke was… shaking?

“The tracking spell takes time to anchor,” he went on, quieter now. “And at that time, I didn’t… I couldn’t even know if you were alive or not.” He turned back toward me, jaw set hard. “When it finally settled, it pointed to the palace. However, usually you can’t enter the palace with Auric Dust, and I had to go through the gates, and by the time I reached the gardens, the palace—and the enture city—was already flooded by the Dusk… and once again, you were nowhere to be found.”

He dragged a hand down his face, eyes closed for a moment. “I called for reinforcements while I was already working on getting the tracking spell to find you again.” A pause. A scoff, bitter and soft. “And then I found you in the middle of a burning marsh.”

He looked at me then—eyes dark, face unreadable. “That’s when I realised who you are, you know that, right? The palace, the fire... it wasn’t hard to put the pieces together.”

A beat of silence.

“Well, yeah,” I said slowly. “I always did like a dramatic reveal.”

Locke just stared.

I cleared my throat. “When I was, uh… maybe seven? I heard my cousins teasing each other with some scary story about the ghost of King Haloran, who supposedly rattles his chains and marches down the dungeon halls at night. So I snuck into the kitchen, stole a sack of flour, rolled in it from head to toe, and burst in on them during dinner, shouting that the ghost of King Haloran had returned to take revenge. Perfect plan, right?”

Locke was perfectly still; only his fingers drummed slowly on the windowsill.

“Unfortunately, I didn’t know they weren’t dining alone,” I went on. “Turns out they had all sorts of fancy guests and diplomats. My aunt nearly choked on her wine... but not so much that she couldn’t scream at me for a full hour afterward.”

Locke raised a single eyebrow.

“I swear it was a whole hour,” I nodded solemnly. “There was a clock behind her.”

Locke didn’t even blink.

I quickly hung my head to sip my tea.

“Anyway,” I muttered, “looks like I upgraded from ghost pranks to fiery disasters. Progress?”

Locke’s eyes snapped to mine, cold and burning. “Don’t ever joke about this.”

He moved fast—crossed the space between us in three long strides. He didn’t sit. Just stood over me, tall and slightly trembling, his shadow stretching across the floor then then vanishing as clouds swallowed the sun again.

“I have spent months trying to teach you control,” he said, voice low and hard. “Discipline. Restraint. How to manage that dangerous, ridiculous power of yours without letting it consume you.” His jaw tightened. “And then you go and steal classified Auric Dust, inside the Sanctum , of all places, where travel magic is sealed off by thousands of ancient wards —and you just... use it ?”

He laughed once, bitter and breathless. “You didn’t even know what would happen, did you? You had no idea what that would do to you.”

I bit my lip, staring ahead at a bland spot on the carpet, chewing on the inside of my mouth. 

Then a sudden, sharp movement—Locke leaned down. One hand braced against the back of the chaise. The other seized my chin, tilting my head up quite roughly.

“Look at me.”

I tried to pull away, jaw tensing and the teacup wobbling in my hand, but his fingers only tightened and his voice dropped lower—quieter, colder. “Look at me, William.”

I blinked. He was close. He was so tall. So uncompromising, and the tension between as felt heavy and roaring—

My gaze slid to his arm, to his shoulders, then to the side, at the walls and at the window behind him. Anywhere but his face.

His grip didn’t ease. His fingers stayed firm on my chin, holding me still.

“You panicked,” Locke said. “I know. I know you were terrified. But nothing will excuse recklessness. Panic doesn’t make what you did any less dangerous, or any less–” He cut himself off with a sharp breath.

I swallowed. 

I still couldn’t meet his eyes.

“Look at me.” His voice was like ice dragged across stone. “You want to tear your talisman off? Steal Auric Dust and use it inside the kingdom’s most ancient place, warded against magical travel in a hundred different ways?” His grip tightened, and it was painful now, making my breath hitch and my heart pound loudly in my chest. “Fine. But you look me in the eye when you are being corrected. You look me in the eye when I tell you it’s time to take responsibility.”

I looked. I didn’t mean to—I just did .

Shit , he looked furious .

I winced, my gaze starting to slip away again, instinctively—but his finger just twitched and my eyes snapped back, his gaze eyes holding mine, full of anger and exasperation and impatience and fear.

“You don’t get to do that again” he stated, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Ever. Do you understand?”

I swallowed, closing my eyes for a moment.

“Do you understand ?” Locke repeated.

I swallowed again, my throat dry, my tongue like dusty parchment in my mouth. “I–” Shit , I couldn’t tear my gaze from his. “Yes. Yes, sir.”

“Good. Because if you… if you ever pull a stunt like that again—if you even come close to this reckless, irresponsible, stupid madness—I swear I will—”

He stopped.

He just stopped. The only sound in the room was the low crackle of the fire. 

He closed his eyes for a moment, his fingers slipping from my chin. 

“I’m trying to protect you. From the Council, from the Dusk, from anyone who would hurt you.” His voice dipped. “Most of the time from yourself. But if you endanger yourself like that again, I don’t know if I would be able to protect you from me .”

The silence that followed was heavy and motionless.

Then the popping of the fire—faint, distant.

Locke breathed out.

“I–” I gulped, twirling the teacup around between my fingers. “I didn’t mean to–” I shifted, staring down at my bent knees under myself. “I thought I had to–” Fuck. “I thought it was the only way.”

Another long pause.

“I know,” Locke said eventually, taking a small step back. “And I still can’t decide if that makes it better or worse.”

I looked away from his heavy gaze. His fingers flexed at his sides, then curled into fists. He stepped back, began to pace—a slow, rigid track across the rug. 

When he finally spoke again, his voice had cooled to something distant. “So. Tell me, exactly—what were you thinking when you used the Auric Dust? What was your intention? Where were you trying to go?”

I hesitated, watching the teacup tremble slightly in my hands. “I wasn’t… I wasn’t really trying to go anywhere.”

He turned on his heel, his hands clasped behind his back. “What does that mean?” His voice was sharp; his steps heavy thumps on the rug. 

My breathing was heavy, and there was a strange heat behind my eyes—fuck—so I snapped at him, “I didn’t think , alright?” Hating the way my voice cracked. “I just wanted to disappear. I panicked. I felt cornered. I didn’t have a plan.”

Locke scoffed, harsh and humourless, not even looking at me. “Of course you didn’t. Because thinking ahead would have required restraint. Which I have spent months —”

“I know,” I interrupted, my voice rising. “You’ve spent months trying to train me. And I’m such a disappointment. I get it.”

He stilled. 

“I just…” The words were heavy on my tongue, and I had to force myself to speak. “The whole reason I wanted to vanish was because I was terrified of…you know. That this whole decade of hiding was for nothing, because I would end up exposed, and—ha! Of course I landed in the damn palace .” I laughed once, bitter. “Worst possible place. Worst luck imaginable.”

Locke stopped his pacing, turning his gaze to me slowly. “You were thinking about the past,” he murmured. “That’s what guided it.”

“What?” I frowned.

“The Auric Dust,” he murmured, stepping to the fireplace and placing a hand on the mantle. “You had absolutely no means to control it, so it took you somewhere familiar. Somewhere tied to your thoughts.”

He kept his eyes on me now, so I nodded to indicate my understanding. 

Otherwise I stayed silent.

“And with the amount of raw magic coursing through you…” He tilted his head, thoughtful. “I think it can attract the Dusk. They must have been drawn to you.”

I looked up. “Drawn to me? Why?”

“Maybe to feed on more magic than draining a whole town would allow them? When we had the means to control the Dusk—when we had the proper tools to—we controlled the Dusk Knights. They are far more dangerous to magicians—you remember the Aurora Device, I assume. The Knights’ blades are lethally poisonous to those with magical powers. But they are the ones who lead the rest of the Dusk creatures.”

“Doesn’t sound like the Council ever had real control over the Dusk, then,” I cut in, bitter.

Locke just waved that off. “The point is: most Dusk creatures feed on memories, emotions, fear. The Knights, though—they feed on magic. That’s what draws them to you.”

I tried to ignore the dull ache curling low in my stomach. “And you’re lecturing me about control,” I muttered, “when the Council never managed to control the darkest force they ever let loose?”

“Do not compare your recklessness to the Council’s choices,” Locke said, voice low and sharp. “The Dusk was a weapon, used in desperation. It was that, or the end of the kingdom.”

“So the Council picked monsters.”

“The Council picked survival.”

“Yeah, but–”

“You are not in a position to judge the Council’s actions.”

I blinked, caught off guard by the finality in his tone.

“The Dusk was the weapon that won us the war—the darkest war this kingdom has ever faced,” Locke said, voice low but fierce. “Without it, we would have fallen long ago. It brought us victory and gave this kingdom a future.”

“But–”

Locke raised a hand to silence me. “Tell me what your goal was, when—against all reason—you traveled with the Auric Dust a second time.”

“But I–” I fell silent at his hard gaze. I huffed, shifting on the chaise into a cross-legged position. “Right. You want to hear every tiny detail of how I fucked up. Of course you do.”

“I want to understand,” Locke said evenly. “So we don’t repeat this mistake. So I know how to keep you alive. Come on; indulge me.”

I sighed. “I really don’t know. I had the Auric Dust. I knew I needed to get away. As far as possible. I felt…the fire…I can’t explain it. Can’t describe. I just knew I had to get away. I don’t know how I ended in Durnock.”

Locke hummed quietly. “The Council’s researchers have inspected the Marshlands of Durnock,” he said grimly. “Only a very small portion of the entire region might still be salvageable.”

I bit my lip. “Well, it wasn’t exactly a fun place to begin with,” I muttered with a shrug. “I’m not sure I’d be in such a hurry to save it.”

He didn’t answer my sarcasm. Just stepped closer to the fireplace, voice even. “Do you remember anything? The moment it started—the fire. Try to describe it.”

My fingers clenched tighter around the teacup. The tea was cold now, the ceramic cool against my hands. 

I wished Locke was closer. 

“I don’t…” I bit my lip, sighing, curling up tighter on the chaise. “I know I can’t give you the answers you want. I have no idea how it happened, or how I even knew it was going to happen. It doesn’t make any sense… because the last time—” I swallowed hard. “In the library… I was asleep. But this time, when I was in the palace gardens, I could feel it. Like a pressure, like something snapping inside me. I just knew I couldn’t hold it back. And by the time I arrived in the marsh, everything was already burning.”

Locke listened silently, his eyes narrowing slightly in thought. When he spoke, his voice was low and steady. “Show me your fire.”

For a moment, I just stared at him. Then I snorted, a sudden, bitter sound, holding up my wrists. “No magic, remember? These things.” I tapped the narrow armbands that sealed away my power.

Locke stepped forward without a word, his movements cold and methodical. He seized my wrists, placed the teacup down on the table with a sharp clink. I barely had time to react before he yanked my hand up and started unclasping the armbands. His fingers worked fast, the cold leather slipping from my skin.

A rushing sound: the familiar hum of magic. Heat beneath my skin, sudden and overwhelming, and a sharp pain behind my temples. I swayed, legs sliding off the chaise. Locke didn’t let go of my forearms until I steadied myself.

His eyes locked on mine, cold and commanding. “Show me.”

I bit my lips. I’d never noticed before how incredible it felt as the magic flowed through my veins—warm, smooth, powerful. Alive. 

“Now, William,” Locke said sharply.

I shook my head, jaw tight. “No.”

His voice softened just for a moment. “Nothing bad is going to happen,” he added, more measured now. “We are safe.”

I rolled my eyes and lifted a palm, fingers twitching with practiced ease. A small flame flickered to life above my skin, curling upward with a soft crackle.

Locke’s eyes narrowed. “That was a spell. I asked for your elemental fire.”

I glared at him. He waved a hand, and the flame vanished in an instant.

Without breaking eye contact, I lit another one.

He stepped closer, inspecting it. “Tricky,” he muttered. “But another enchantment. Why are you trying to deceive me?”

I shrugged, letting the fire snuff out. “Maybe I’m just in the mood.”

“Your fire,” he said again, voice like ice. “Now.”

I stayed still, breathing shallowly.

Fuck.

“I can’t,” I said quietly, staring at the floor.

Locke’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean, you can’t?”

“I mean I can’t,” I snapped, louder this time. The words scraped out of me, raw. “I can’t control my element.”

His expression shifted, but I couldn’t tell if it was confusion or disappointment.

“Happy now?” I went on, bitter heat building behind my eyes. “That’s what you wanted, right?”

“What?” he said again, slower.

“I can’t control my basic element,” I said, laughing now—sharp, humorless, trembling. “Another brilliant example of me being an utter failure. You’re relieved to finally confirm it, aren’t you?” My voice cracked on the last words.

Locke said nothing at first. Just stared, eyes sharp, jaw taut.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low. “And you thought lying about it would keep you safe?”

He didn’t sound angry. More like… disappointed .

I just shrugged.

Locke was silent for a moment, then spoke with calm finality. “We will ask Councillor Mara to help you with your fire. She’s the foremost expert on elemental discipline.”

I huffed. “No.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yes.”

“No,” I shook my head. “I’m not doing that. I can’t—”

“You will,” Locke said, his tone flat. “You don’t have a choice.”

“There is absolutely no way I’m going to sit around and—what—practice? Practice how to burn down more things?” I let out a bitter laugh. “I can already perform every spell, every enchantment, every rune about fire perfectly. I don’t need my element. I can control fire perfectly.”

“Then do tell me, what exactly happened in the Marshlands?” Locke said coldly, raising an eyebrow.

My face burned red.

I swallowed. “Fine,” I blurted out. “I’ll learn every sigil of fire in every language if you want. I’ll master every spell even in the dead languages. I will–”

Locke’s eyes didn’t waver. “You will learn to control your element, William. That’s not up for discussion.”

I opened my mouth, but he cut me off with a single, hard glance. “I’m done arguing.”

Locke stepped closer, the black armbands still in his hands. He reached for my arm, and I just blinked, my mouth parting slightly as he grabbed my wrist firmly.

“No…” I tried to pull my arm back, but he held me tightly. “No, please.”

He stilled for a moment. “William. You know you have to wear them.”

“Yes, but– no–” I twisted my hands, trying to wrench free. “I can control myself, I swear. I will. Just—just don’t put them back, please…”

His eyes softened, just briefly, a flicker of something almost like regret. “You will wear them a little longer. Not forever. Just until you are ready.”

I froze, chest heaving, as he methodically slid the armbands back over my wrists, the leather closing around my skin seamlessly.

Pain shot through my whole arms, up to my chest, through my veins. I sagged, my wrists slipping from his hands.

Not forever.

“The third time,” he said quietly. “When you went back to the palace, you managed to guide the Auric Dust.”

I shrugged, not looking at him. “I didn’t really think about it.”

“I suspected as much,” he muttered. He stepped back, folding his arms. When he spoke again, his voice was grim. “Do you know what happened with the Dusk, William?”

My fingers fidgeted with the edge of the cuffs, tracing the runes burned into the leather. My throat tightened. “I don’t know. I just wanted to stop them. I… I swear I’ve got nothing to do with the Dusk. You have to believe me. I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” Locke said quietly.

I blinked at him. 

“I know you were trying to stop them,” he nodded. 

I exhaled, some knot loosening in my chest.

“But everyone saw it, William,” Locke went on. “And everyone with even a thread of magical sense could feel it. What happened in the palace gardens wasn’t just a flare of power. You… connected to the Dusk.”

I opened my mouth—but Locke raised a hand, and the words caught in my throat.

“No one has ever seen anything like it,” he continued, his gaze sharp, his voice low, thoughtful. “The way the Dusk reacted to you. The way they stopped. You didn’t just destroy the ones near you, or even the ones in the palace, but every single creature of the Dusk in the whole capital.”

I blinked. My voice came out small. “I— Yeah, but I have no idea how it happened.”

Locke’s jaw twitched. “You probably saved hundreds of lives.”

“I didn’t even know what I was doing. I don’t even know how I did it.”

“I know,” Locke sighed. And then, quietly—so quiet it was almost an afterthought, yet somehow heavier than everything before it—“But it raises the question.” He looked at me, steady and unreadable. “If you can control the Dusk, Will—what else can you do with them?”

The silence between us thickened.

He didn’t say it outright, but the implication hung heavy in the air. Not repel . Not destroy .

Control.

Use.

I shook my head. “That’s ridiculous. No one needs to be worried that I’m going to... I don’t even know what you’re afraid of, that I’ll unleash the Dusk on the Council or something? You know I can’t control anything. Not my magic, not the fire, not the Dusk, not even the simplest…I mean, look at me.” I shoved my hands up, armbands small and narrow but powerful around my wrists. “These stupid armbands—I get it, okay? I get why you use them. You were right. You’ve always been right. About control, about me needing to—needing to learn fucking discipline…” I laughed, but the sound was empty and unfamiliar. “But you should’ve figured it out by now—I can’t. I try, and I try, and I fail . Over and over again.” I looked up at him, eyes burning. “But you keep trying, like it’s going to change. Like I’ll magically become the thing you want. How stupid can you be?” I laughed, sharp and ugly. “You are just wasting your time.”

Locke tilted his head. “You are a seventh child,” he stated. “And you were born on a solstice.”

I blinked, caught off guard for a moment.

He went on, voice quiet but firm. “Either one alone is enough to grant a magician exceptional or unusual power. Both together? It’s not surprising that control is harder for you.”

I scoffed. “Oh, how nice. So I’m not a failure—I’m just cosmically fucked.” I flung my hands out, nearly knocking the teacup over. “Thank you for the insight.”

Locke began, “It helps us understand why—”

“No,” I cut him off, “no, it doesn’t help with shit. And you’re just an arrogant idiot if you think wasting more time on me will make any difference.”

Locke didn’t move.

He just stood there, watching me, his expression unreadable.

The silence started small. 

Then it stretched. 

Thickened.

Grew heavy.

I shifted. Huffed. My arms folded across my chest, defensive. “What?” I snapped. 

His voice was so calm it made me flinch. “I’m thinking about spanking you.”

My jaw dropped. “What?”

“Yes.”

“You’re out of your fucking mind.”

Locke made a noncommittal, almost amused hum.

He kept his gaze on me—eyes not flickering, not narrowing, not softening —as he stepped forward, a slow, careful, controlled movement. 

“Stand up,” he said.

I blinked. “But–”

“You heard me. Stand up.”

I slid back, drawing my legs up on the seat. “This is ridiculous–”

“Now.”

His voice was flat. Steady. Final.

Legs trembling, hands clenched into fists, throat tight—I stood.

He stepped closer, took my arm, and held me close as he sat down. His movements were simple and efficient as he began unfastening my trousers.

“What the hell,” I snarled, trying to flap his hands away—without success.

“I made the mistake of being too lenient before,” he said, voice maddeningly even. “When what you really needed were rules, boundaries, and accountability. I can’t let you keep spiralling into self-destruction.”

He pulled me across his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

“But– You can’t–” I kicked around, but he simply raised a knee to tip me forward and placed a strong hand over my hip. “Shit—I’m a fucking prince !”

“Right,” said Locke. “Now settle down.”

I thrashed hard, feeling a hot blush creeping over my cheeks. “You sanctimonious bastard–”

He just pulled me in tighter, adjusted his knee beneath my hips, and brought his palm down with a loud crack. 

“What the hell is this even for?” I snapped. “I’ve been in bloody prison!”

Locke didn’t even pause. His hand came down again, hard. “Yes,” he said flatly.

I twisted against him, but his grip only shifted to adjust—unhurried, practised, unshakably firm.

Heat spread across my skin, slow but building, and I twisted, trying to roll off, wild and desperate. 

Locke just kept raising his hand and slamming it back down on my naked bottom, and I wiggled, biting the inside of my cheek, squeezing my eyes shut.

The slaps echoed in the room, and I went still—a decoy—before I suddenly swung my elbow backwards, aiming for his side. He made a faint grunt; then just hit me harder, his palm collecting with my flaming skin with a loud clap.

My hand whipped around, and I slammed my palm against his calf, repeatedly. He let out a bored sound, as if I were some recurring but minor nuisance, and only flinched slightly when I slipped my fingers under the leg of his trousers and dug my nails into his skin with full force.

With a sudden, fluid motion, he reached down and caught my wrist, twisting it behind my back and pressing it down until I grunted in pain. His other hand tapped my bottom as he hummed, then resumed the spanking with another ear-splitting slap.

“Shh,” he murmured. “You can relax now.”

This time his hand came down faster and harder. It was just his hand, buck fuck , it hurt—I kicked a leg and hissed and squirmed in his hold.

Locke’s hand came down again, and again, and again. “Will,” he said, voice low, patient but firm. “This isn’t punishment.”

“What?” My fingers clenched into a fist behind my back. “Then what the hell is it? Because it certainly feels like a fucking–”

I went silent with a grunt, hanging my head forward, letting the curls of my hair fall into my face.

Locke didn’t answer right away; instead, his hand came down again and again, alternating between the sides, hitting the tender undercurve of my bottom, fast and steady and sure. I bit my lip against the pain.

“This is a reminder,” he said quietly. “Reminding you that I’m here. That you’re not alone. That you matter.”

I twisted, swallowing hard, my entire body so tense it ached. The tender skin of my bottom throbbed sharply—Locke paused, dragging his nails gently over the hot skin. I groaned, trying to wriggle free. “I don’t need reminding,” I growled. “I don’t—”

A sharp, echoing slap cracked across both cheeks, cutting me off.

Locke adjusted me with calm precision, tipping me forward so my hip rested on the curve of his thigh. He wrapped one leg around mine to pin them in place and pressed his hand, gripping my wrist, firmly to the small of my back. I couldn’t even really squirm anymore.

Rapid and powerful slaps on my bottom, making me suck in a sharp breath, making me squeak in a low voice. 

Shit.

“I–” Ow, ow, ow. “Maybe we could–”

“You are not going to talk yourself out of this, William,” Locke said, tone still maddeningly calm. “This is a lecture. Delivered in the only language you will allow yourself to hear right now.”

I tried to breathe as his palm connected with my flaming skin again and again, sharp and deliberate.

“You are my apprentice,” he went on, punctuating every single word with a stinging slap. “You will keep studying. You will keep learning about yourself.”

I gritted my teeth. My hand clenching into a fist behind my back; the other clawing desperately at Locke’s leg.

“You will master your magic.” Smack . “You will master your fire.” Smack, smack, smack, smack. “You will study with perseverance and discipline, making full use of your abilities and talent.” 

“Ah, there’s no– there’s no need. It would be easier for you–”

Locke didn’t answer with words. Just a crack —sharp, clean, and hard enough to rip the air from my lungs.

I jolted and gasped, eyes wide. “Shit–”

“Enough.”

Tears stung at the corners of my eyes. I squeezed them shut, trying to hold everything in.

More slaps, and fuck, how was Locke this strong —but of course I remembered every bloody morning training session, his smooth precision, and the raw strength behind his movements…of course Locke wasn’t just perfect at swordsmanship—he was perfect at spanking, too.

Is there anything Locke isn’t perfect at?

I was thrashing and twisting, instinctively now, trying to get away from the pain somehow. I closed my eyes, and saw the Dusk and the fire and faces from my past—and I opened my eyes to stare at his dark blue carpet instead. I was grunting and whimpering and biting my tongue to keep silent.

“You don’t get to decide what’s easier for me,” Locke said. “You don’t get to diminish yourself in front of me.”

I hissed through my teeth. I could feel the sting in my eyes, the tightness in my throat, the clenching in my jaw as I struggled to breathe.

“You will not hide behind shame,” he said. “You will not run from your responsibilities. You will not chase your own destruction just to prove you were never worth saving.”

Crack. Crack. Crack.

I raised my free hand to sweep a few long strands of hair away from my sweaty forehead.

I’m not gonna cry.

My voice shook as I tried to speak. “You don’t…” Shit, ow. “You don’t have to do this.” Ugh. “You don’t have to waste your time on me.”

Locke’s grip on my wrist hardened just a fraction. His voice was low but as sharp as his slaps on my burning skin. “I will do this,” he said slowly. “Whether you want me to or not.”

I couldn’t stay still. 

…hot, sweeping pain under his relentless smacks.

I’m not gonna fucking cry.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do, William,” he said, voice low and cold. “Not ever.”

My body felt heavy.

“I’m not wasting my time,” he continued, his palm coming down, if possible, even harder than before. My breath caught in my throat with a strange, high noise. “I’m making sure you won’t forget that I’m here.”

My vision was blurry, and my mind was blurry too. 

The spanking blurred together into one vast pain without beginning or end; there were no separate slaps, only one enormous one that overwhelmed everything... I clenched my teeth and also every muscle in my face because, damn it , this was just his hand— there’s no way that I’m gonna…

Locke’s fingers gently brushed over my burning skin. “Shh. It’s alright. I’m here.”

A series of hard strikes landed low on my bottom, angled upward, and fuck—I was breaking apart. My body started to shake, and I bit down hard on my lip. A single tear slipped free, burning as it ran down my cheek.

Locke stopped, his hand resting lightly on my skin. His grip on my wrist eased but didn’t disappear.

“You don’t have to hold it all inside,” he murmured, and—

—and my body convulsed with a sob, raw and ragged. Tears spilled from eyes, and I tried to wipe at them, but my hand were shaking, and everything hurt, tender helpless—

Locke’s hand softened, releasing my wrist slowly. My chest heaved roughly, my throat was sore, and my limbs trembled. The tears were slick and hot down my face.

Somehow, in a blur between sobs and gasps, I found myself sliding off his lap. I didn’t even realise when we had shifted, but then I was curled up on the chaise, chest heaving, and Locke’s arm settled around me, warm and steady and safe.

His fingers traced slow, gentle circles on my back and on my shoulders.

“I’m here,” he murmured.

My chest squeezed tight, my breaths scraping my throat like shards of glass, digging deeper with every gasp. My heart pounded so loudly I could hardly hear my own voice, broken and raw, barely a whisper, more like a choke: “I– I’m– I’m sorry.”

I could feel him shifting slightly, pulling me closer, letting my head rest against his chest.

“You don’t have to say that,” he murmured, his voice low and soft against my hair. “Just breathe. I’m right here.”

I gasped for air, the knot in my throat too tight, my chest aching too much, the memories in my mind too sharp; the fire, the lies, Locke, the secrets– 

“I’m sorry…” I repeated, voice ragged, fingers fisting his sleeve so tight my knuckles turned white.

Locke’s hand slid over my back in slow, soothing circles, warm and grounding. “Hey. Hey. Look at me.” His fingers were gentle and cool against my flaming cheeks as he turned my head towards him. “You haven’t done anything wrong. Shh. None of this changes how much you matter to me.”

I blinked, more tears flooding my eyes, and I buried my face in his shirt

But I couldn’t stop. The guilt was a wildfire in my chest, flaring with every breath. “I’m so sorry.” My voice was high and miserable and breaking. “Please… please forgive me…”

I thought of my family—the expectations—the monastery—the armbands on my wrist—my magic—

Locke tightened his arms around me, one hand treading gently through my hair. 

“William, you don’t have to carry this alone. You never did. I’m not going anywhere.” A soft kiss on my forehead. “I know you are  scared, and that’s all right. I’m here. Always.” Out of nowhere, a handkerchief appeared, gently wiping the tears from my face. “You don’t have to fix everything right now. Just let me hold you.”

I trembled into him, more tears flowing into the handkerchief, as I kept repeating the words, broken and desperate—“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”—and Locke’s arms held me tighter, and I closed my eyes and tried to disappear into his warmth.

“I know it hurts.” His voice was quiet but steady and reassuring. “I’m so sorry you have had to carry all this alone.”

I was trembling so hard now that he had to shift again, drawing me onto his lap, letting me turn towards him, wrapping his arms around me.

“I’m not going anywhere, no matter what.”

My fingers curled into his shirt, clutching, my tears soaking into the fabric. I could feel my heartbeat—fast, raw, erratic—thudding against his chest as our bodies pressed together.

Locke’s heartbeat was slower, steadier.

I took a deep, shuddering breath, and tried to concentrate on that.

Notes:

Are we supposed to keep the chapters to a similar length? Well, oops.
I absolutely love every comment, so please don’t keep your thoughts to yourself <3

Chapter 46: Impact

Summary:

Conversations. The Council. Locke.

Notes:

Soooo, I thought this was going to be a rather uneventful chapter. I was planning to write 'nothing really happens here' as a summary. But then the end of the chapter took on a life of its own, and perhaps it didn’t turn out quite as mild as I intended.

“Who’s going to be there?” I asked, as I tried to find the sleeve of my shirt. 

“Councillor Ashmore, of course,” replied Locke, who was in the middle of lacing up his boots. “Councillor Khaemt, because she’s overseeing the blood test—”

“The blood test is some sort of obscure mystery?” I managed to get my arms into the sleeves, and now I was willing my fingers to stop trembling, so I could button up the shirt. A magician with trembling hands wasn’t exactly ideal—you needed steady fingers to weave spells correctly. 

But of course, I couldn’t do magic anyway. 

Locke shot me an unreadable look. “Councillor Khaemt is responsible for the blood records.” He stood and smoothed down the front of his coat, then crossed to me without a word and began adjusting the uneven lay of my collar. His fingers were efficient. Infuriatingly gentle. “And Councillor Rowland will be there too,” he added.

I groaned. “Why does he have to be everywhere?”

Locke’s hands tugged the hem of my shirt straight. “Because he is the Councillor of Arcane Defence.”

I grunted. “Not at all because you, for some strange reason, like him.”

“I do,” Locke said simply. “I know he can be really demanding,” he went on, “and yes, he is kind of famous for being so harsh—but he is wise, too. Experienced. He has served the kingdom through war and ruin. We could all learn from him.”

I pulled a face, half to annoy Locke, half because I couldn’t help it. “He hates me.”

Locke didn’t argue, he just hummed and turned me a little by the shoulder so he could fix the lay of my sleeve.

“Well,” he said, “you have not exactly gone out of your way to show him respect.”

“I don’t even know why he expects to be respected,” I muttered. “All he does is scowl at everyone.”

Locke tilted his head slightly, one brow raised. “Isn’t that more or less what you do?”

I turned to glare at him—but his face was calm, almost amused. I scowled harder. Then I realised what I was doing, blinked, and tried to smooth out my face.

“You have…” Locke started, voice lower now, more thoughtful, “a very complicated attitude towards authority.”

“I do not—”

He stepped closer, fingers sliding into my hair, tilting my head up. The kiss came without warning—firm, commanding, swallowing the rest of my protest. His mouth was warm, assured. His other hand slipped behind my back, pulling me closer, leaving me no place to wriggle at all.

I loved the feeling of his lips against mine. Loved his fingers in my hair, pulling at the roots. Loved the heat of his body, so close to me. 

I only hated the way I practically melted—I hated how quickly it happened, how fast my spine went soft and my thoughts vanished, until he was essentially holding me up, and all the reality vanished into the feeling of his kiss.

When he pulled away, I was breathless, blinking up at him like a dazed idiot.

Locke didn’t step back. He stayed close, one hand still cradling the back of my head—like he fucking owned it—and his eyes searched my face, slow, making me blush.

“See?” he murmured.

I opened my mouth, but there weren’t really coherent thoughts in my head; just a faint buzzing in my skull and the heat still blooming in my cheeks. And fuck, lower . I was not going to let him see that. I tried glaring at him, but it felt weak.

“You—” I began, then stopped, gulping. You’re smug. You’re unfair. “You… you can’t just kiss me like that when we’re talking about Rowland . That’s—wrong. It should be illegal .”

Locke’s fingers drifted down, smoothing the fabric over my shoulder, unnecessarily. “Then behave. Be respectful in the meeting.” He leaned in again, lips brushing the corner of my mouth, slow and deliberate. “And I will kiss you like that again afterward.”

I froze. “You’re bribing me,” I said flatly.

“I’m offering you an incentive,” he corrected, and at a few shifts of his right hand, a brush materialised between his fingers. Ha raised it up to my hair. “Classic pedagogical method. Positive reinforcement.”

I huffed, trying to keep scowling at him. It wasn’t easy—the hairbrush was soft against my hair, and Locke’s movements were methodical but gentle.

“I hadn’t noticed,” I muttered. “Usually you just threaten me with all kinds of brutal punishments.”

Locke sighed and turned me by the shoulders. I hissed as the bristles caught in my hair, until Locke gently tilted my head aside and began carefully separating the strands.

“I know you are tense,” he said. “But you need to try and behave yourself. There’s nothing to worry about—we are only going to discuss the results of the blood examination, and–”

“Nothing to worry about?” I repeated incredulously.

“ And ,” Locke continued firmly, “the Council already knows about your family. The King spoke to Councillor Ashmore.”

“He did?”

“Of course. It’s not every day the King pays a visit to our imprisoned apprentices.”

“But…and Lysander?”

“After everything that’s happened, no one will be surprised to learn you are a descendant of Lysander Langston. We will go over the results. They may ask you a few questions. All you need to do is answer them as best you can.”

“But I don’t know anything about Lysander!”

Locke lowered the brush and turned me back to face him.

“You don’t need to. It will take time to uncover all the details of this matter. I think you could be grateful for Councillor Ashmore for her decision to discuss it with you privately. Then the Council will deliberate, and–”

“Why does the Council always deliberate about me without me?”

“Perhaps because you keep interrupting everyone?” Locke raised one eyebrow disapprovingly. I rolled my eyes but stayed quiet. “Later on, the Council will hear from you again as well. We need to decide your punishment, and–”

“But I’ve already been imprisoned!”

Locke let out a deep sigh. “Just behave yourself, will you? There is absolutely no need to land yourself in even more trouble.” He patted my collar one last time. “Come on.”

 

Councillor Ashmore’s office was beautiful, even if the tall, pointed windows now only let in the pale light of the cold, grey winter morning. But a fire crackled warmly in the fireplace, and sphere-holders on the walls and on the enormous desk cast a soft, welcoming glow. There were small, round tables, armchairs that looked wonderfully comfortable, and ornate cabinets carved from some dark and expensive-looking wood. Paintings and tapestries adorned the walls, and the floor was covered by a thickly woven rug. One wall was entirely taken up by a bookcase, the shelves reaching up to the high ceiling.

My gaze lingered on the spines of the books for a while—until Locke placed a hand on my shoulder and steered me onwards into a side chamber, where a long table stood surrounded by chairs covered with burgundy upholstery.

Councillor Khaemt was already there, her long cloak gathered around the base of her chair. Her fingers were interlaced on the table, and she appeared to be deep in thought. A few seats behind her sat a scribe, paper and quill and ink in front of him.

Rowland, on the other side of the table, was seated a few chairs away and had his scowling gaze fixed directly on me. I scowled back at him.

“Please, do take a seat,” said Councillor Ashmore, gesturing towards a few empty chairs.

“Thank you,” Locke said with a nod, casting an expectant glance at me as he nudged one of the chairs forward.

“Thank you, Councillor Ashmore,” I muttered. My chair scraped loudly against the floor as I sat.

Ashmore took the seat at the head of the table. She drew a stack of papers towards her, folded her hands, and let her gaze pass over everyone.

“We are gathered here today to discuss the preliminary results of the blood examination of Apprentice Arvil Thalen of Arundel, formerly known to us as William Alden,” she said. “Present are the apprentice’s master, Councillor Ellis Locke, responsible for Artefact Authentication; Councillor Khaemt of Obscure Mysteries; and Councillor Rowland of Arcane Defence.” She drew a sheet from the top of the stack before her, her tone measured, neutral. “Our purpose today is to review and clarify the findings, inform the apprentice of their implications, and prepare an analysis for the Council’s consideration. The full Council will convene in the coming day to deliberate further. At that time, Apprentice Arvil Thalen of Arundel will be summoned to speak and respond to the Council directly.”

I gulped, not looking at anyone.

Arvil Thalen of Arundel. The name landed heavily in my gut—Arvil Thalen of Arundel ought to have been a prince. He ought to have grown up with his parents and siblings. He ought to have been lounging now in some grand palace on a velvet-covered chaise, all elegance, good manners, and perfect courtesy.

Okay, maybe not that last part, but still. Not this . 

Suddenly, I remembered how Locke had spanked me the night before. I glanced at him from the corner of my eye, hoping I wasn’t blushing.

Then Ashmore turned to face me.

Ashmore had never been rude to me. We usually met when I was being summoned before the Council for one reason or another—so not exactly under pleasant circumstances or in my most dignified moments—but even then, I never felt she judged or looked down on me. I always knew that as the head of the Council she obviously wielded immense power—but she was always calm and composed. Almost kind.

Now, as she looked at me—not even from the grand, semicircular platform of the Council Hall, but from across a simple table in this small room—it suddenly hit me that she was the head of the Council. The fucking head of the Council.

And she definitely didn’t get there by accident.

Oh, shit.

She didn’t look harsh; she didn’t look frightening or angry or judgmental.

But I still felt like she could turn me to dust with a snap of her fingers.

Shit—is there a spell for that? 

“So, apprentice,” she said. “What shall I call you?”

I swallowed hard. “Um… William’s fine, Councillor Ashmore. Sorry.”

Why did I say sorry for?

The scribe’s quill scratched loudly. I stared at the table in front of me while everyone else stared at me.

“Very well,” Ashmore nodded. “So, William. You lied to the entire Council.”

A breath. A bit shaky, and I clasped my hands together under the table to stop the trembling. “Yes?” I mumbled. “Ma’am.”

I didn’t dare look up.

“Do you understand the weight of what you’ve done? I’ve spoken to your father, and while I won’t pretend to grasp every detail—in fact, I suspect most of the details are still quite unclear to me—I believe I have a fair idea of what had happened. Apprentice William, you stood before the Council under a false name. You took your initiation oath under a false name. You lied about your name, your age. You ought to still be at the Academy.”

My head shot up. “But Locke said they wouldn’t send me away!”

“ Councillor Locke,” Rowland snapped. “ Master Locke.”

“His Greatness Councillor Master Locke,” I rolled my eyes in Rowland’s direction, “said I wouldn’t be sent away.”

“And you won’t be,” Locke spoke up. His voice was calm and firm, but his eyes flashed a warning at me. “Although, watch your tone, please.”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say,” I snapped. I glanced towards Locke. “You dragged everything out of me yesterday that you wanted to know. Do we really have to suffer through all of this again today?”

“Is this you minding your tone?” Rowland grumbled.

I stiffened. “Well, your tone isn’t much better either.”

Rowland snorted. “You should know I voted for you to remain in your cell, and I still maintain that your master is a fool for making such concessions to you.” I glanced at Locke in surprise: he and Rowland were scowling at each other with hard faces and tightly pressed lips. Shit . “But thanks to Councillor Locke’s leniency, you are not undergoing interrogation in a cell right now,” Rowland continued. “Consider your position before speaking like a sulking child.”

I didn’t even know why I was so angry at Rowland. (Probably because I wasn’t really angry at him at all.) Either way, my hands clenched into fists on my legs as I took a deep breath and was about to snap back—

“Enough,” Ashmore said. I stared at her for a moment, then shut my mouth. “We are giving you the chance to speak on matters I suspect you wouldn’t want to discuss before the whole Council. Tell us, please, William: were you fully aware that you were lying to the Council, deliberately and consciously?”

I swallowed hard. Everyone’s fucking eyes were on me.

“You already know the answer is yes,” I finally muttered. Then I looked up at Ashmore and quietly added, “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“Are you aware that neither your origins, nor your rank, nor the reasons for your lies—no matter how understandable or justifiable—exonerate you from the consequences of lying before the Council?”

Another big swallow. My throat felt dry and tight. “Yes, Councillor Ashmore.”

Ashmore hummed quietly. The scribe’s quill scratched across the paper, and the grumpy wind rattled the windows.

My boot tapped against the floor, and my fingers drummed on the armrest of the chair. I didn’t look at anyone—just focused on breathing, trying to ease the tension tightening in my chest. But no one asked why I’d lied, or why I’d kept secrets. I sat with my head bowed while Ashmore spoke about my duties as an apprentice, and—as usual—about how my only task was to continue my studies with unwavering diligence. I didn’t ask how the hell I was meant to learn anything with these damned armbands on my wrists; I just nodded.

Councillor Khaemt spread wide sheets of parchment across the table. Intricate text, lists, calculations, diagrams, and strange symbols covered every inch. The Councillors leaned in as if they actually understood the twisting glyphs and endless numbers in the tables. I just blinked. Khaemt explained that yes, I was indeed a descendant of Lysander Langston. They referred to him as the late Councillor Langston, as though the fact he’d once sat on the Council somehow erased the fact that he’d also been a complete madman. According to Khaemt, somewhere between nine and eleven generations separated us.

There was some murmuring, some scanning of the documents, fingers tapping on the parchment—because Lysander’s damn presence in my blood seemed far stronger than it ought to have been after that many generations. Murmurs, questions, nods.

The scholars and historians would begin unravelling the bloodline.

My mother had agreed to cooperate.

My mother. At that point, I lost the thread of the conversation for a while, thinking of the tall, elegant woman with the silver streaks in her dark red hair, standing perfectly still in the palace garden as the guards led me away...

Back to the present. Rowland was scowling at me from across the table, and I realised I must’ve drifted off rather obviously. Ashmore cleared her throat and looked at me expectantly.

“Um… yes? I’m really sorry, Councillor Ashmore.”

Ashmore’s face remained calm and patient. “I asked if you would consent to another blood sample, William.”

Do I have any other choice?

“Yes, of course, ma’am.”

Khaemt went on about the significance of the bloodline. The unforeseen consequences of a magician having had a child (though considering it happened centuries ago and no one had noticed until now, it didn’t seem all that threatening to me). Rowland muttered something about how I could be dangerous, and I found myself thinking that as long as I had these blasted cuffs on, I wouldn’t be able to dream of Lysander to ask what the hell he’d done.

The Council would hold a session, as they always did. I’ll be summoned when they’re ready to inform me of their decision. My task is to continue my studies. Unwavering diligence.

But how, exactly?

I stared at the black bands around my wrists, at the choking silence, at the strange emptiness sitting in the middle of my chest. Khaemt gathered up the papers. The investigation would continue. There would be all sorts of tests and experiments. I wasn’t to concern myself with any of that—just focus on my diligent studies. With Locke’s permission, I could cross into the Citadel, but otherwise I wasn’t to leave—and thanks to the enchantment on the armbands, I physically couldn’t, anyway. 

Just study.

But how the bloody hell was I meant to do that?

The meeting ended. At Locke’s request, I waited a little while as he exchanged a few quiet words with Rowland out in the corridor. Rowland looked surly, as ever. Ashmore gave me a small smile as she departed. Khaemt drifted off, her long cloak trailing behind her like a shadow.

No one told me how I was supposed to study anything now, if I couldn’t even use magic.

 

“He’s going to speak with my parents,” I said, sitting on the edge of the wall, my foot tapping against the stone. “Do you get it? He’s going to speak with my parents. Locke. With my parents.”

Sol raised his eyebrows. He was leaning against a stone balustrade, on a disused section of the old watch that criss-crossed the rooftop and framed a tucked-away little courtyard on one of the upper floors. His arms were folded tightly, drawing his cloak close around him—technically it could’ve been spring by now, but the late afternoon was bitterly cold, and the wind howling around us felt almost icy.

“It’s completely absurd, even just saying it,” I added.

“There’s quite a lot that’s rather absurd about this whole situation,” Sol agreed quietly.

It was the first time we’d spoken since… everything happened. I had been doing my best to avoid the other apprentices—and, honestly, everything else too—but Locke had insisted I keep my days as normal as possible. I told him there was absolutely no way I was going to attend any common lessons while I couldn’t use magic. Locke insisted I go. He said he was travelling to the palace in the afternoon to speak with my parents. I told him not to dare, that they had no right to discuss me behind my back. He said his decision was final. I told him to go to hell. Then he pulled that suddenly sympathetic expression and told me everything would be all right, that I didn’t need to worry—and I yelled at him that I wasn’t going to sit through classes unable to use magic, and I wasn’t going back to the palace because obviously everyone there hated me, and that he could fuck himself, and then—fuck him—he hugged me. And I— fuck me —I let him.

Then I told him, once more for good measure, that he can go to hell and rot there for eternity, and stormed off to hide in the library for a few hours.

Sol found me there. He hadn’t really wanted to come up to the roof (“I’m fairly certain this is against regulations”), but I wanted to test whether this technically counted as leaving the Sanctum (thankfully it didn’t), and the library had been quiet and peaceful and familiar, and I just… couldn’t talk about any of these… things there. 

I told Sol what had happened, though most of it was already common knowledge. Rumours spread surprisingly fast—and with surprising accuracy—among the apprentices.

“I know it was stupid,” I said.

Sol tilted his head slightly, watching a bare tree sway in the wind down in the courtyard below. Its branches scraped against the windows, and the wind caught and spun the screeching sound around. “It all seems perfectly understandable to me,” he replied.

“Yeah, because you’re a decent and kind person,” I muttered. “Try being a bit less understanding. Look at it logically—pretty much every choice I made was a terrible one.”

“People aren’t logical,” Sol shrugged. “That’s why it’s understandable.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

Sol sighed, and when he turned to me, his face looked almost grumpy. “Will. Stop it. You don’t need to make me judge you or hate you. I’m your friend. I know you’ve been through a load of shit, and I’m here, trying to support you. Let me. All right?”

I blinked, a bit stunned, my throat strangely tight.

“I’m not trying to get sympathy or anything…”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“Shit.” I rubbed at my face, exhausted. “Shit, I attacked Gavin.”

Sol winced slightly. “All right, that wasn’t your smartest move.”

“Exactly. See? Obviously everyone hates me.”

“Well…” He trailed off, his eyes following some dry leaves flying in the wind.

“What?”

It was bizarre seeing Sol roll his eyes. “Look, I like Gavin. I think he’s a good person, and once you get to know him a bit, he doesn’t seem so grumpy all the time. I think the two of you actually… have quite a lot in common.”

“What? What? ”

“I’m just saying, there are probably plenty of people who’ve wanted to go for Gavin at some point. He can be really irritating.”

“Great. And you just said I’m like him.”

Sol didn’t even bother replying to that. For a while, we both just stood there in silence, watching the trees below.

“What’s going to happen now?” Sol asked eventually.

“I don’t know,” I answered quietly. “The Council’s discussing things. They’ll inform me of their decision. Locke said I’m staying here. Everyone keeps saying all I need to do is study hard and behave myself. No one says how I’m supposed to study if I can’t use magic. No one says how long I’m stuck with these bloody things.” I gestured irritably toward the armbands. “It’s just so…I don’t know. Disappointing?”

“Disappointing?”

“Yeah. So much happened… the dreams, the Dusk, everything. And then it turns out, yeah, it was all actually happening because of me. And now everyone knows it and everyone knows about me being a fucking prince. And just when you’d expect some big dramatic resolution or moment of clarity, it’s just… this.” My fingers fiddled with the collar of my coat—almost the same motion I used to make when the talisman was still around my neck. “Apparently my blood might help control the Dusk. The Council has some ancient artefact they used to use that worked with Lysander’s blood. Even though there are loads of generations between us, everyone seemed optimistic that my blood might work too. Though I don’t really know why it is even important—it seems like as long as I can’t use magic, the Dusk won’t show up anyway.” I lifted my wrists so the bands peeked out from under my sleeves. “And well… who knows when I’ll ever be able to cast again?”

With a sigh, I kicked a pebble aside. It skittered across the stone and landed with a soft clink on the edge of a roof tile.

“I know this probably isn’t much comfort, but…” Sol looked over at me cautiously. “At least now you’ve got time, haven’t you?”

I shoved my hands in my pockets—no matter how hard I tried to sit casually and nonchalantly on the stone ledge, it was bloody freezing. “Time? Time for what?”

Sol gave a small shrug. “To figure things out? To decide what you want. To meet your family. To get used to… all of this.”

“Get used to this…” I shook my head—then a sudden thought occurred to me. “Shit, I— I hadn’t even thought about the fact that the whole country thinks I’m dead,” I exclaimed. “Fuck, the whole kingdom! I always… I always used to wonder how my parents and my siblings would react. I’ve got six siblings, did you know?”

“Everyone knows, Will.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah. But seriously—bloody hell, is the entire kingdom going to find out I ran away? Shit. Shit, they hold an annual memorial for my death, for fuck’s sake.”

Sol gave a quiet laugh. “Yeah, it’s strange to think that we have been commemorating your death every year,” he said. Then, with a thoughtful smile still on his face, he nodded reassuringly. “I’m sure the Crown will come up with something. You’ve returned. You’re alive. You’re a powerful mage. I’m certain you’ll come out of this just fine.”

“I unleashed the Dusk on the palace, for fuck’s sake.”

“No one really knows what part you played in that.”

“Shit…” I crossed my arms tighter. “I don’t even know what I’d say to them. What do you say to a family who buried you?”

Sol didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched just long enough to feel thoughtful, not uncomfortable.

“You don’t have to say anything perfect,” he said eventually. “You just have to show up. Let them meet you—not the idea of you, not the memory. You.”

I scoffed under my breath. “That sounds terrifying.”

He gave me a sad, knowing smile. “I know. But I think you’re brave enough.” 

I bit my lip looking away. Blinking fast.

After a pause, Sol stretched his arms and gave a dramatic sigh. “You know,” he said with a solemn expression, “if I keep offering you counsel like this, people are going to start calling me ‘Sol the Wise.’ I’ll need a special cloak.”

I gave a snort. “You’ll get your own tower at this rate. A crystal ball. Maybe a talking raven.”

“I’ve always wanted a talking raven,” he grinned.

I smiled, more genuinely this time. “Thanks, Sol. Really.”

“Anytime.”

 

The parchment Locke handed me that evening wasn’t a letter, nor even an invitation. It was more like a summons. It bore my father’s official signature, the royal seal, and all the fancy embellishments they stamp onto parchment when the king summons his long-dead son to a family gathering.

“I’m not going,” I told Locke, and tried to throw the scroll into the fire blazing in his fireplace.

With a single gesture, the scroll stopped mid-air and floated neatly back into his outstretched hand.

Of course—just another perk of being able to use magic, damn it.

“No,” I repeated. I might’ve even stamped my foot. “Absolutely not.”

“I don’t think you have a choice,” Locke shook his head.

“My job is to stay in the Sanctum and study diligently,” I informed him.

Locke raised one eyebrow. “Exactly.” He unrolled the parchment and read through it with narrowed eyes. “That’s exactly what you will do. Tomorrow, you will appear before the Council. Then you will resume your studies—diligently, consistently, and with discipline.” He turned the parchment toward me. “You have got nearly a week until the meeting. Plenty of time to learn some discipline and proper manners.”

“What?” I snatched the parchment back from his hand, checking the date more closely. He was right. “Why so late?” The comment slipped out before I could stop it: “I guess they don’t want to see me so urgently, then.”

Locke sighed, took the parchment back, and placed it carefully on the corner of his desk, shooting a warning glance at the fireplace beside me. “Your family can’t wait to meet you. Your father and you have a lot to…discuss. Your mother… your mother just wants to see you, I think. But the palace has a lot to prepare.”

“I’m not going,” I said again.

“You are going,” Locke said firmly.

“You can’t make me,” I said.

“Oh, but I can,” he replied.

“But—”

He sighed, stepping behind his desk and reaching for his chair. “We are not having this argument. Go to dinner.”

“But—”

He pulled his chair out and sat with a stiff movement, reaching for some paperwork. He motioned towards the door. “Dinner, William.”

I drew a deep breath. “I’m your prince. You can’t just order me around and force me to eat dinner if I don’t want to. You can’t—”

He glanced up. “Do you want me to spank you?”

I stared at him. Blinked. Opened my mouth, then closed it again. Blinked once more. Looked away.

…Yes?

I felt my face go red.

“I’m going to dinner,” I muttered.

 

 

The guard escorted me before the Council. I kept my back straight and my chin just high enough to appear respectful, not proud. As usual, Ashmore sat in the centre of the semicircular platform, with Rowland on one side and Khaemt on the other. Locke was seated to Khaemt’s right, his expression unreadable as he looked down at me. I swallowed hard.

Ashmore’s voice rang through the hall—tired, yet commanding.

The usual speech. We are gathered here today to deliberate on my actions... the Council is noble and magnificent and has safeguarded order for centuries and seeks to make a just decision, representing both tradition and progress...

Prince Arvil Thalen of Arundel. My stomach twisted, and I didn’t dare look at anyone.

I stared at the floor in front of me while several others spoke.

“Incredible, the power he has. We must study and teach—that’s why we are here.”

“He lied.”

“Flogging, I keep saying…”

“Can’t you see what he’s been through?”

“He shouldn’t even be an apprentice. He belongs in the Academy.”

“In my classes he’s quiet and diligent. One of my finest students.”

“Smart or not, if he can’t behave—rules. And laws!”

“What he did with the Dusk…”

“The Dusk…”

“His power…”

“He attacked another apprentice! That’s exactly how we first encountered him, and it seems despite all our teachings, he hasn’t stopped using magic inappropriately—for personal gain months ago, stealing, and now even worse, to attack. This should be punished in the harshest way.”

“Flogging…”

“Oh, come on!”

“If we don’t stand by our principles…”

“Our principle is also forgiveness and education.”

“If only we could…”

“You all know…”

“We shouldn’t…”

“Could we just…”

The argument was finally cut off by Ashmore.

“Apprentice,” he said, once the room had quietened, “the Council is prepared to render judgement. You may speak now. If there is anything you would like to say on your behalf, this is the time.”

I swallowed hard, clenching my hands behind my back.

“I... I... thank the Council for hearing me.” I kept my eyes on the ground. “I do accept whatever decision you make and will do my utmost to learn from my mistakes.”

There was a brief silence before Ashmore nodded slightly. “Very well.” She turned toward the semicircle. “We shall proceed with the vote.

Despite that they had already debated it for hours earlier, many still seemed dissatisfied. Arguments continued to arise suggesting that the best course of action would be to finally have me flogged—preferably in public, and preferably in such a way that I might at last learn my lesson.

Even so, the majority still voted only for a formal caning at Locke’s hand. Also, of course, I was to remain within the bounds of the Sanctum. I wouldn’t be allowed to use Auric Dust for a year—Locke softened this slightly by adding the exception of co-travelling in life-threatening situations. And naturally I was to wear the Kowlanow armbands—no one said for how long. I couldn’t help wondering whether any of the Council members had ever actually tried these damn things themselves and knew what they felt like. I rather suspected not.

“...in addition, I propose weekly instruction in arcane safety and regulation,” Locke was saying. I looked up. He locked eyes with me, unwavering. “He has shown a repeated disregard for protocols.” 

A few councillors murmured assent. 

What?

Locke turned slightly. “I recommend Councillor Rowland oversee these lessons, if he’s willing. As head of Arcane Defence, his experience is unmatched.”

…What?

“I don’t want to have lessons with him,” I said flatly.

Outrage flared around the chamber.

“I’m not particularly keen on teaching him, either,” Rowland said, dry as bone.

Locke ignored me and turned to Rowland. “Please consider it,” he said. “Your experience and knowledge in the field of magical defence are exceptional—this includes not only safety procedures, regulations, and protocols, but also self-control. I truly believe your expertise would be of great benefit to William. And, frankly—it helps that he is somewhat terrified of you.”

That earned a few faint chuckles.

Rowland looked down at me, frowning.

“I’m not afraid of him,” I declared, but to be safe I avoided Rowland’s gaze and kept glaring at Locke.

“Silence, William,” said Locke.

“I’m fucking not afraid of him,” I repeated.

Locke sighed, and the voices of discontent grew around us.

“William Alden,” Ashmore said coldly, “you have not been granted permission to speak.”

Rowland’s voice was flat and disinterested, but his deep rumble filled the entire chamber. “I propose we raise his punishment from twelve to eighteen strokes.”

Ashmore didn’t miss a beat. “All in favour?”

I stared at Locke, who looked back at me with an unreadable expression as he was the first to raise his hand.

Fuck.

I scoffed, trying to act nonchalant. “Oh, that’s nothing. He once gave me forty just because I was late for training.”

“That’s not what happened,” said Locke, sending me a disapproving look. “Silence, William.”

“But—”

Ashmore raised a hand for silence. “The Council has voted. Eighteen strokes, to be administered by your master, as per regulation.” She nodded toward Locke. “See to it at your discretion.”

Ashmore’s gaze swept over me, sharp and unyielding.

“That concludes the Council’s judgement. Apprentice Alden, you are dismissed.”

I bit my lip. “Yes, Councillor Ashmore.” I swallowed hard, then inclined my head slightly. “I thank the Council for their time and consideration.”

The guards stepped forward. I turned and walked away, keeping my posture straight, though my heart thundered as the heavy doors closed behind me.

 

 

I was sitting at the top of the stairs outside Locke’s study—I’d been told to wait for him there.

No one had said when exactly he’d be coming.

I chewed the corner of my lip and fiddled with the damn bands around my wrists. They looked like some tough leather, but no matter how much I pulled, dug my nails in, or even tried to bite them, the material didn’t give at all.

I thought about the cane, about the pain—and about how Locke had to deal with all this nonsense again. No wonder he wasn’t in a hurry. 

How angry must he be, having to spend this time punishing me again? How disappointed?

I thought about the cane, about the pain. About the fire, as the Marshlands of Durnock burned around me. About the palace garden, the screams that jolted me awake at night. Even about Gavin, lying unconscious on the Refectory floor—all because I had once again failed to control myself.

Locke had been right all along. Damn it, he’d been right. Control. Discipline.

I thought about the cane, and the pain, and waited for Locke to arrive.

 

I jumped to my feet as soon as I heard his footsteps on the stairs, leaning my shoulders to the wall and crossing my ankles and arms casually. He appeared around the curve of the spiral staircase, back straight, face unreadable.

“Took you long enough,” I remarked. “Not so easy climbing all these stairs at your age, huh?”

Locke raised an eyebrow, but didn’t respond in any other way. He didn’t even slow down as he passed me, key already in hand. The door to his study clicked open.

“In,” he said simply.

I followed, glancing at him from the corner of my eyes.

The room was warm, lit by steady amber spheres floating above the sconces. The shadows stretched long and soft across the rug. I looked at his desk, thinking about the cane. About the pain. I stood, not knowing where to put my hands. 

“Well?” I said. “Want me over the desk already, or do you prefer lecturing me a bit first?”

He closed the door behind us and didn’t answer right away. He stepped over to the coat stand and slowly removed his long outer coat, folding it with the same exact care he used for everything else, and hung it neatly. Then his gloves—one finger at a time, methodical, unhurried.

“Undress,” he said. “Fold your clothes neatly. Place them on the chair.”

“Oh, your not-at-all unhealthy obsession with order,” I said brightly. “I almost forgot about that.”

Still nothing.

I yanked my shirt over my head, more aggressively than necessary, and tossed it to the side. He glanced at it once.

“The chair,” he repeated.

I picked it up again and dropped it on the armrest with an exaggerated flap.

“What would happen to you if there wasn’t such order around you?” I asked in a conversational tone. “Something terrible? Would you lose your mind completely? Would madness take over you?”

Locke didn’t even acknowledge me with an answer. He walked over to the cabinet and with a few swift movements pulled out the cane.

We locked eyes—he standing there, straight-backed with an unreadable expression, twirling the cane smoothly between his fingers, and me, motionless and half-naked, facing him.

Then I leaned forward slightly to reach the corner of his desk and swept the thin, delicate glass inkpot off the edge.

A soft thud, a tinkling crack. The thick black ink soaked slowly into his carpet, like a shadow spreading on the floor.

Locke’s face twitched for just a moment. His fingers tightened around the cane for a brief second. Then his expression returned to calm and unreadable as he stepped forward, placed the cane on the desk, and began to clean the stain with a spell.

“Undress,” he told me, as the ink rose from the fibers of the carpet and flew back into the mended inkpot. 

Huffing, I turned away and kicked off my boots, the worn leather thudding against the floor.

Trousers followed—tossed carelessly, slapping against the wall.

I caught Locke’s eyes, waiting for a flicker of anger, a snap of impatience.

“Fold everything and put them on the chair,” he said, giving a last wave with his hand over the carpet, now clean and ink-free as ever. 

“How should I fold my boots?” I asked. I aimed for mock-innocence, but my voice came out rather annoyed now by his lack of response.

Locke didn’t even grace that with an answer. Huffing, I collected my boots and threw them behind the chair. Grabbed my trousers, and let them fall, folded just enough to meet his standards. 

Locke picked up the cane, examined it carefully, then brushed a speck of dust from its surface. Finally, he gestured toward the desk.

“Take down your undergarments and bend over.”

I didn’t move.

Locke raised one eyebrow.

“Now, William.”

Our eyes met for a moment. Then I looked at the desk. At the cane. I thought about the pain.

“No,” I said.

Locke exhaled through his nose—slow and quiet. He didn’t even blink. “I’m going to wait,” he said. “But make no mistake. You will comply.”

Bloody hell.

“We could just cancel the whole thing instead,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Or, you know, you could double it. For being uncooperative. You’ve done that before, haven’t you?”

Locke’s eyes narrowed slightly—but he showed no other reaction.

“In the past,” he said slowly, “perhaps I have. But when you are feeling guilty, and trying to goad me into punishing you more harshly by being impertinent and defiant—then no. You don’t get to decide what happens here, William.”

I stared at him, my mouth dry.

He wasn’t supposed to say that out loud. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I muttered.

“Of course you do.” His voice was still low, still maddeningly composed. “And I’m not indulging it.”

I clenched my jaw, staring past him. The air in the room suddenly felt unbearably warm, the softly glowing spheres too bright, and the crackling fire in the hearth deafening.

The fire. The Marshlands. Gavin. The Dusk. The palace gardens, the screams. My mother.

And Locke’s maddening calm. The silence. That slow, waiting stillness.

I laughed; dryly and bitterly. “This makes no sense,” I said. “Half the Council has wanted to have me flogged for months now, and when I finally do all the shit imaginable to deserve it, what happens? Another feeble caning? And you just stand there all puny, letting me get away with all this shit without consequence? You’ve gone soft.”

That got a pause. Just a beat. Then: “Take down your undergarments and bend over the desk.”

I hesitated, breathing unevenly and scowling at him. He didn’t even flinch. With trembling hands, I pulled my pants down, stepped out of them and turned towards the table.

Then, slowly, I bent over the desk.

The wood was cool beneath my forearms. Familiar. Unforgiving.

Then—Locke’s hand was on my back. I flinched, and a thumb brushed slowly over my skin. He pushed me down until my chest pressed against the tabletop.

“You’re not here because you were scared,” he said. I growled in outrage and tried to shake his hand off. He didn’t move, just firmly pressed me back against the table. “You’re not being punished because you were afraid and lost control. Not because of who you are or what happened to you in the past. Not because of the panic, the fire, or the Dusk. Do you understand that?”

I growled. Locke held me firmly against the table. I tried to swing my leg up and kick him, but he dodged easily. I settled for slamming one of my fists against the table.

“No,” I said. “I don’t understand why you’re not angrier. I’ve fucked up everything. Everything. All you ever do is put up with me. When was the last time you even had time for your beloved artefacts? That’s supposed to be your job, no matter how boring it is—not babysitting me. You’re stupid and an idiot and completely out of your mind if you don’t see that.”

Locke hummed above me—a thoughtful, almost amused sound.

“Finished?” he asked.

“No,” I snapped, hitting the table again. Locke sighed and gathered my hands, pressing my wrists together behind my back. I didn’t have the strength to fight him, so I just carried on without stopping: “People died because of the Dusk, do you get that? People. They died. Because of me.”

“No,” he said.

“Yes, for fuck’s sake, because I was a bloody idiot and stole that fucking Auric Dust, and you lot won’t shut up about how I didn’t have permission to use it, instead of focusing on the fact that people DIED, THEY FUCKING DIED, BECAUSE OF ME, IT WAS MY FAULT, BECAUSE—”

“No,” said Locke again, and this time his voice was harder than at any other point that evening—and even though I’d been waiting for it, even though I’d been craving it, the sound of it froze my blood and I went completely still.

“No,” he repeated. “You are being punished for attacking a fellow apprentice and for stealing the Auric Dust. Because that was your fault. What the Dusk did—that’s the Dusk’s fault. Not yours. It never was, and it never will be.”

“But fuck, they came because of me.”

“No. The Dusk is a dark, terrifying, dangerous force. You didn’t decide for them to show up at the palace. You didn’t make them attack people. The only thing you did was drive them back—and save countless lives.”

I shook my head. Locke held my wrists tightly behind me, so I couldn’t wipe away the tears running down my face.

“No,” I said, though my voice broke and I could barely take a breath. “No. You’re an idiot... you’re an idiot if you don’t see it. I was– I was in prison. I wear these... these bloody armbands like some proper criminal. Only you—”

“You wear those armbands so we can help you keep control of a power none of us possess, and that none of us would be capable of managing. The armbands are not a punishment, William.”

“They bloody well should be,” I muttered, pressing my forehead against the tabletop. “They should be. And you—coming at me with your fucking hugs and your fucking conversations, and even when you spanked me, it was just so I’d feel better. I don’t fucking deserve to feel better.”

Locke was silent for a long breath. One of his hands stayed on my wrists, and the other moved, slowly, up over my spine. When he spoke again, his voice had shifted—quieter, but not gentler. Firmer. Unshakable. “I never said your feelings weren’t real, William.”

I blinked hard, staring down at the desk through my tears.

“You feel guilty. You feel ashamed. And you want pain because you think it might make that guilt stop eating you alive.”

“And you fucking refuse,” I whispered, my voice small and wet. 

“I refuse to let you dictate the terms of your punishment,” Locke said. Still quiet. Still immovable. “You don’t get to decide how much pain you deserve.”

His hand pressed between my shoulder blades, his palm warm and steady. I absolutely hated how solid it felt.

“You refused orders,” he continued. “You attacked another apprentice. You stole restricted materials and you used them without sanction.” His tone was calm and flat. “You are here, bare and bent over my desk, because of that.”

I tried to take a deep breath but failed. I shook my head. “That’s not. That’s not—”

“It is.”

“It’s not enough,” I hissed. “You’re not angry enough—”

“I am angry,” Locke cut in, and his voice rose a bit sharper now. “But I don’t let my anger decide your punishment, and I don’t let you decide your punishment.”

I was trembling now, biting my lip so hard it hurt. My arms ached where he held them pressed to my lower back.

“I don’t deserve your patience,” I said.

“You are not getting my patience,” Locke replied. “You are getting discipline. You are getting consequences.”

A sob, loud and wretched. I tried to twist away again, but he held me down easily. 

He waited until I went still.

“You are not being punished for what the Dusk did,” he said. “You are not being punished for your panic. You are not being punished for being afraid. Not even for lying about your name; the Council understood why you did that. So can you tell me why?”

I groaned and kicked out angrily. I wanted to scream. “Because I fucked up everything,” I spat.

Locke’s voice stayed calm and even. “No. Try again. Why are you being punished, William?”

“Because people died,” I muttered, spiteful. “Because of me.”

Locke’s voice didn’t flinch. “People died because of the Dusk. Not you.”

“I burned down the Marshlands.”

“No. Why are you being punished?”

“Because—”

“No.” Calm and flat.

I thrashed. “I didn’t even say anything!”

“You didn't have to,” he sighed. “Your tone was enough for me to understand. Try again, William. I’m going to ask as many times as I have to. Why are you being punished?”

My breath hitched. The silence was only broken by the crackling of the fire and my hitched breath. 

“Fuck you,” I whispered.

“Why are you being punished, William?”

I wanted to scream; to shout at him; to be able to stand up and claw his eyes out. 

Another sob escaped me.  “Fuck you,” I repeated in a small voice.

Locke didn’t react, but I could feel his hand drawing small circles between my shoulder blades.

Then, at last, I said it. “Because— Because I attacked Gavin.”

A low, approving sound. I could practically feel him nod. “And?”

“Because I stole the Auric Dust.” My voice sounded so far away. “And used it without permission.”

The silence after that felt strange. Final. Cold and clear.

“Yes,” Locke said. “That is why.”

I let out a strange sound, low and high at the same time. I yanked at my hand, and Locke let me move it to my face, to wipe at my nose, at my tears. One of his hands stayed on my left wrist, still pinned behind my back, and the other left my shoulder, reaching for the cane. 

“You are here,” Locke said, his voice quiet again, but unmistakably final, “naked and disciplined on my desk, because you broke the law. The Council deliberated, and decided on eighteen strokes.”

I flinched.

“No more,” he stated. “No less.”

He touched the tip of the cane to my bottom, and my body went still, goosebumps breaking out all over my limbs. I shivered and my mouth opened, but I couldn’t say anything. I curled tighter, pressing my forehead to the desk, clutching my free hand close to my chest. 

“You are not being punished for what the Dusk did,” Locke repeated. “Not for your fear. Not for the past. You are being punished for your choices.”

The tears were hot on my face.

“Breathe,” Locke said simply. “Stay with me.”

A jagged breath, wet and broken.

The silence stretched—just enough to make my skin crawl.

Then the faintest hiss of the cane being lifted. A pause. 

Nothing—

Then a sharp crack.

It was somehow worse than anything I remembered. A line of fire, and I bucked forward instinctively, a raw sound tearing at my throat—maybe a scream. The pain was too bright, too sudden.

Locke’s hand held my wrist tightly as I trembled on the desk, cold and sweaty and sobbing and not understanding what’s happening. 

“I know,” he said. “I know it hurts.”

Another sharp crack. I jolted with a cry, hips twisting uselessly against the desk.

“You broke the rules, William.” His voice was smooth. “You broke the law.”

Crack.

I choked on a sob, shame twisting tighter in my gut and I tried to flinch away from the weight of his words. I couldn’t. He had me pinned, my wrists locked behind my back, my chest pressed to the cold wood of the desk. I was naked. Exposed. 

Another stroke, and I screamed again. My legs kicked, but he didn’t let me go.

“You stay here,” Locke said, firm. “You stay present.”

My throat ached, and my voice came out hoarse and cracked and barely audible. “Please—”

“This pain is here to remind you,” Locke continued, “that your choices have consequences.”

Another hiss.

Crack.

I screamed. It broke out of me before I could stop it—loud and high and gasping. My legs kicked, my back arched. I couldn’t hold still.

“You are not being punished because you are weak,” Locke said, and the cane snapped down on my skin with an awful snap. “You are not weak. You are being punished because you are responsible.”

Ugly, snotty, choking sobs. 

I didn’t understand how it hurt this much. I’d taken more before. I’d had worse.

“Breathe,” Locke ordered. “Stay with me. Feel it.”

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. Just the white heat of pain, and his voice anchoring me in it.

Another crack. I screamed through clenched teeth. 

“Breathe,” Locke repeated. 

Another stroke. I couldn’t see it coming—I couldn’t prepare. It landed lower, or maybe higher, I couldn’t tell—everything was an enormous mass of shrieking pain.

Crack. I let out a broken, gasping moan and sagged against the wood, my cheek sticky with tears. My thoughts wouldn’t hold shape.

That sick hissing sound. Pain, somehow still growing, still getting worse . Another shriek, muffled by the desk. My body twisted like it could get away from it. 

It couldn’t.

“I know,” Locke said. “I know it’s too much.”

I was whimpering. Twitching.

A hand touched my back between my shoulder blades, and I could feel Locke’s body closer, warm and solid, his clothes brushing against my skin. 

“You are not alone,” he murmured. “I’m here, all right?”

I tried to nod, but I was shaking too much. 

“I’m here,” Locke repeated, then softly, stepping back: “Eight more.”

I sobbed, incoherent. I didn’t know what I was saying. I think I begged. I think I cursed him.

“I will not stop,” Locke said. “You are strong enough for this. You need this.”

Crack.

My voice broke. My body burned.

The cane struck again. I sobbed hard enough I thought I’d be sick.

“You are brave,” Locke said.

Crack.

“You can do this.”

I sobbed, trembling. His hand at my wrist pressed in gently, grounding. 

The sound of the cane was brutal, precise, tearing through the air, through my skin. I screamed again, but had no strength left to try to pull away.

“You are not alone,” murmured Locke.

The next stroke tore some sound out of me, high and wet and slurred. 

“I know,” he said gently. “I know it hurts. You are almost there.”

My cheek pressed against the desk, my vision blurred and swimming, and I gasped for air, my throat raw and tight and aching.

My whole body ached.

Crack.

My head spun.

“I’m here,” murmured Locke. “I’m right here.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. The pain was raw and sharp, shredding my skin, blooming deep down into my flesh, into my bones.

I stayed—that was all I could do.

“Try to breathe, William. Stay with me. Concentrate on the pain.”

Crack.

I bit into my hand so hard that blood welled up.

Locke leaned over me, pried the hand away, his movements slow, gentle, and pinned my wrist alongside the other at the small of my back.

“You are so brave,” Locke murmured, still holding me steady. His voice was calm. Unshakeable. “I know it hurts. One more.”

I tried to shake my head. Tried to fight, tried to twist away, tried to scream.

“You can do this.” His voice was low. Steady. “You are doing this. Eighteen. That’s the last.”

The room spun. The air was too thick, too loud in my ears. My entire body was on fire—burning, trembling, spent.

“Breathe, William.”

I tried. I really tried.

Then the last stroke fell.

Crack.

A scream. Rage. Shame. Grief.

Something snapped in me—not breaking, more like loosening, giving way.

Just the sound of my own sobbing, of my lungs clawing for air.

“I am so so proud of you,” murmured Locke. 

Trembling. Locke kept saying things. His hand moved to my shoulder blades, firm and heavy. The other kept cradling my wrists—not restraining now, just holding. His thumb caressing my fingers. 

Short, wet gasps. Tears. I felt like my body was on fire, like my nerves burned, like I would never be able to stop the crying. Locke kept saying things. 

I whimpered. I wanted to collapse, although I was already crumpled on the desk. 

Something ached deep inside my chest. 

“Is’t done,” Locke kept saying. “You have done it. You did so great. So brave.”

I blinked hard, my vision still blurry.

A shuddering breath. Another. Everything hurt. My legs were shaking.

“You are safe,” he kept saying. “I have got you. Just breathe.”

Slowly, carefully, Locke let go of my wrists and brought both his hands up—one to the back of my neck, the other to the side of my face. He cupped it gently, his fingers warm against my damp skin.

He kept saying things as his thumb brushed my temple.

My mouth opened, but I was unable to speak. 

“Just breathe,” he kept saying. 

Then—his hands around me. Warm. Steady. Strong. Just holding. Gathering me in, slow and careful, lifting me away from the desk, into him. 

I closed my eyes and let him. 

We sat somewhere. He pulled me into his lap, one hand pressed protectively to my spine, the other curled around my shoulders. My face found his shirt, and I buried myself there, sobbing against him, clinging, trying to breathe. 

He held me like he had all the time in the world.

Notes:

I would absolutely love to hear your thoughts *.*

Chapter 47: Passage

Summary:

Travelling to the palace.

Notes:

Uh, I can't believe how much time has passed. I really, really appreciate your patience during the endless time between chapters!! *.*
I'm not at all satisfied with this chapter, but well I have also written a few possible future scenes that are much lighter and more fun (spoiler: one of them involves a short poem about Locke’s cock), and I can't wait to get to that part.
I hope you will like this one more than I do :D

I also made some boards on pinterest with pictures vaguely resembling the things I imagined: https://hu.pinterest.com/melodyofthenightshade/

I didn’t know when it was decided that I would, quite incidentally, stay in Locke’s bed. After the caning, I woke in his arms, mostly just trying to breathe evenly in a rather timid daze until my fidgeting finally woke him too. Locke—the always perfect Locke—was collected and well-groomed and flawless even when freshly awake. I let him roll me onto my stomach to inspect the marks from the previous night’s caning.

What followed was a long and uncomfortable conversation about whether I had truly understood why I had been punished. Locke kept me on my stomach and kept his hand on my bare bottom; the pain was still sharp and throbbing, which made me quite motivated to provide answers that met his expectations.

Then he bathed me again. I did my best to be grumpy and uncooperative, but the water was warm and his touch was soft and careful. I was basically melting into his hands.

Afterwards, Locke cheerfully announced that it was time to resume training.

“No,” I said, horrified.

“You have fifteen minutes to get changed and be on the training grounds.”

“But—I can barely move!” I tried.

“Don’t be late,” Locke said.

“I’ve got fucking purple bruises on my ass!” I exclaimed, outraged.

“Don’t be late,” Locke repeated, and ushered me out the door.

Training, in the end, consisted only of some light stretching and the most basic sword drills, and though no movement was exactly comfortable, overall it was more boring than exhausting. I remarked on this to Locke once, whereupon he threatened me with endless laps around the training ground if I fancied it, so I—being always wise and thoughtful—kept my mouth shut after that.

“We are leaving the day after tomorrow,” Locke said when we were leaving the training room.

“What? I thought…”

“You are not allowed to use Auric Dust, so we are travelling by carriage.”

“But you can use Auric Dust, couldn’t you just take me?”

“You are not allowed. We are leaving in two days.”

 

As the astronomical winter drew to a close, the winter semester ended as well, and between the Dusk and the prison and my life being turned upside down, I had missed a great number of exams. I spent most of the morning trying to explain to Councillor Wigmar that it really wasn’t my fault I couldn’t turn up at his exam, seeing as I had been imprisoned at the time; and then I spent another half an hour begging Councillor xy to let me take her exam after I’m back from the palace, not right that afternoon.

Thinking about exams—and not about ways of avoiding meeting my family—was really hard.

After lunch, I was in my room, sitting cross-legged on a soft pillow on my bed,  reading an absolutely dull book about the eighteenth amendment to the laws concerning violations of magical autonomy, when there was a knock at my door, and Locke stepped in.

“What are you doing here?” Locke asked, his eyes sweeping the room with familiar disapproval.

“Reading,” I replied, keeping my gaze fixed on the book.

“Have you forgotten that Councillor Rowland is giving you your first lesson today?” His voice was totally unreadable.

“No,” I said, lazily turning a page.

Locke sighed. “Well then? Why aren’t you on your way to his study?”

I sighed too and leaned closer to the page, trying to make out a word where the ink was slightly smudged. “Oh, I’m planning on being late,” I informed Locke. “He wanted to ban me from his Dusk lessons just because I was a few minutes late. I thought perhaps it might work again now.”

Locke raised an eyebrow. “This is not optional, Will. This is a consequence handed down by the entire Council. There is no way out of it.”

I glanced up finally. “You mean the entire Council who just happened to unanimously agree with your stupid idea?”

Locke’s expression didn’t flicker. “I’m on the Council. I made a preposition, and the Councillors agreed. Does that change the fact that you have to attend your lesson?”

I made a point of flipping another page in the most obnoxiously slow and deliberate manner I could manage, shrugging.

Locke took a deep breath. “Just understand that I will leave it entirely to Councillor Rowland’s judgement how best to address your tardiness,” he added. Then a small pause. A dangerous smile. “If you want to be late, you are welcome to try. I’m sure it will turn out to be a really memorable experience for you.”

He let that hang in the air.

I pretended not to react, but my stomach sank in a very specific, very annoying way. I shifted, just a little, trying to keep my weight off the worst of my bruises.

Locke noticed. Of course he noticed.

His voice was gentle when he added, “I have heard his punishments can be quite… thorough.”

“Heard?” I scoffed. “He was your master. Are you telling me you were such a perfect little apprentice that he never ever punished you during that nine year?”

He gave me a reproachful look, but then his eyes turned thoughtful, reminiscent. “He did sentence me to a public flogging once,” he said, then looked me over with sharp eyes as I gaped, shocked, letting the book fall down from my hands.

“What the hell did you do?” My voice was barely above a whisper.

Locke’s lips twitched, almost amused. “Accidentally spilled some tea on an old weapon.”

“What the— A flogging? For— For that?”

His eyes locked on mine, steady and unapologetic. “Yes. And rightfully so. Carelessness like that could have cost lives.”

“No, it couldn’t.”

Locke sighed. “Will, if you keep binding your time, you will definitely be late.”

I hesitated. He was already stepping back toward the door.

“I’m sure you will enjoy finding out what he considers fitting punishment for that,” Locke added.

“Oh, fuck you.” I tossed the pillow aside, wincing as I scrambled to my feet.

“Ah,” he grabbed my arm when I tried to storm past him, “when you are done with your lesson, you can return here and properly clean up this disaster of a room. I expect it to be spotless.”

 

The path to Rowland’s office wound up twelve flights of stairs, through five endless corridors, and across a small inner garden dotted with pine trees. By the time I arrived, a sharp stitch gnawed at my side from running, and it felt like the fabric of my trousers had chafed my bottom bloody raw.

I took a deep breath, then another. Smoothed down my shirt, tried to arrange my face into something vaguely resembling composure, then knocked on the plain, unadorned wooden door beneath the small plaque that read Garrick Rowland—Arcane Defence .

“Enter.”

I wiped the reluctant grimace off my face—it had crept back without my permission—then stepped inside.

“I’m so sorry for being late,” I said. “I lost track of time. I meant no disrespect, Councillor.”

Rowland raised one eyebrow—remarkably similar to the way Locke often did, though on Rowland’s face it looked utterly dreadful—then glanced at the enormous grandfather clock standing by the wall.

“As it happens, you are precisely on time,” he remarked, sitting behind his desk with a rigidly straight back. “Barely, but on time. Sit down.”

Rowland’s office looked just as inviting as his personality: gray walls, a fireplace, the grandfather clock, a single bookshelf, and a cupboard with closed doors. The walls were bare. The fireplace was unlit. His desk sat squarely in the centre of the room and, aside from the documents he was currently reading, it was entirely bare.

Opposite the desk was a straight-backed wooden chair with no cushioning. I swallowed hard and tried to sit carefully—but I was quite certain the painful grimace that twisted my face did not escape his notice.

But was all this fuss for? In the end, I spent a grand total of three minutes in Rowland’s office. 

Three minutes .

The first two were taken up by him fixing me with a grim stare, arms folded across his chest, while issuing a threat:

“I understand Councillor Locke uses the cane on you,” he stated. He said it with such casualness, as though it was a daily occurrence that I did something to warrant Locke bringing out the cane. “Am I right?”

I stared at the leg of his desk, feeling my face flush, but decided not to argue. “Yes, sir.”

“Perhaps that is something he has learnt from me,” Rowland nodded lightly. “However,” his voice darkened so much that I glanced up, “you need to understand that the way Councillor Locke uses the cane is nothing compared to what you will get from me.” He said it as a fact, not as a possibility. “Let us be clear: being here is a punishment for you. There will be no exceptions, no excuses. If you fail to appear, I will punish you. If you are late, I will punish you. If you do not study to the best of your ability, I will punish you. Understood?”

“Isn’t it punishment enough that I have to be here?” I muttered.

“And that was the last time you spoke to me in that manner and in that tone. If it happens again, I will punish you. Understood?”

For a brief moment I was on the verge of arguing, but my bottom still ached and the chair was hard and uncomfortable, so in the end I just nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now, let us see today’s lesson.”

That was the other one minute from the three—today’s lesson. Rowland handed me a list of titles and instructed me to find them in the library and read at least two of them by next week.

“Councillor Rowland,” I said cautiously. “Well, I don’t mean to object or contradict you,” I made sure my voice remained scrupulously polite, “but Councillor Locke and I will be travelling to the capital. By carriage. I don’t believe we’ll be back in time for the next session.”

Rowland’s eyes narrowed, but eventually he just nodded. “Very well. Four books then, in two weeks.”

And by that point I was absolutely sure he was gravely underestimating me—for books in two weeks? Just watch me, Councillor Rowland.

 

I had to pack for the journey the next day. Locke stood in my doorway, surveying the scattered clothes, books, and papers with a deeply disapproving expression.

I picked up two shirts and held them out to him. “Which one should I wear when... which one should I wear at the palace?”

Locke raised an eyebrow. “It’s a uniform, William. All your shirts are the same.”

“No,” I snapped, waving the shirt towards him. “Look, this one’s at least an inch shorter...” I tossed the shirts onto the bed and pulled another out of the wardrobe. “And this one’s sleeves don’t seem to be the same length...”

“All I see is a shirt that’s criminally creased,” Locke remarked, leaning wearily against the doorframe.

“That’s no help,” I muttered, kicking aside a half-pair of socks that had been abandoned in the middle of the floor.

“I’m not here to help. I’m here because we should have left twenty minutes ago,” Locke replied dryly. “Grab the shirts and pack them in your bag, William. We need to get going.”

It took another twenty minutes before I finally stepped out into the corridor beside Locke, my bag heavy on my back and a large pile of books balanced in my arms. Locke was not in a good mood: we only managed to find my missing boot under a cupboard with his help. I wasn’t exactly thrilled either, since by the time we’d reached the boot-search stage, I was well on the verge of panic.

Neither of us spoke on the long walk out of the Sanctum, nor on the grand halls and long corridors of the Citadel. Locke performed at least a dozen spells over the armbands binding my wrists to let me step outside at all. By the time he finished, my entire jaw ached from how tightly I had clenched my teeth.

In the carriage, Locke sat opposite me, on the other side of the seat. I scooted over towards the door so our knees wouldn’t collide, and while Locke sighed tiredly, I opened one of the books I was meant to read for Rowland’s lesson—Neural Conditioning for Arcane Mastery—and raised it up high enough to hide behind it completely. 

My thoughts felt like fucking smoke, slipping through my fingers—and I didn’t want to think about smoke. 

Fire.

The bands felt tight around my arm, even though I knew they were gripping my wrist just as gently as before. Locke made sure they weren’t too tight. A constant reminder, wrapped in black leather, of everything I wasn’t allowed to do. I flexed my fingers along the edge of the book. A tiny movement, a cautious enchantment—

Nothing. Just the hollow emptiness gnawing deep in my stomach.

If only there had been... something. A death rattle, a wail, a bone-chilling scream that shakes the world every time the armbands suppress my power so cruelly.

But there was nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

I turned a page, forcing my attention onto the description of the neural changes that can happen in the brain as a result of magical training, and the role that regular mental exercises might play in these changes according to research.

I didn’t think about the fire. Didn’t think about my magic or the armbands. Didn’t think about the Dusk, or my mother watching as the guards led me away. Or my father, standing in front of me as I knelt on the cold stone floor of the cell. The barely noticeable change in his voice when he realised who I was. She still dreams of you.

When I slammed the book down onto the carriage floor, Locke was already sitting beside me, his strong arms around my shoulders. I buried my face in his chest and sobbed. Locke held me tight.

At least this way I couldn’t jump out of the moving carriage and run in the opposite direction.

 

It was still well before lunchtime when we stopped at a roadside inn, and I felt both grateful and irritated with Locke—because he let me escape the cramped confines of the little carriage. Because he realised that I needed this.

It didn’t really matter. We would eat the hot stew, its aroma filling the small inn dotted with tables, and the freshly baked bread the innkeeper laid before us with a broad smile. Then we would get back in the carriage and rattle along towards the palace, where the king and queen would be waiting, along with who knows how many of my siblings. They would all see me, no doubt want to talk to me, and there would be nowhere for me to go. Besides, I had burned down half the palace, vanished for twelve years, and was secretly a magician—having no magic right now, because apparently, I was a danger to everything and everyone, and—

“Eat,” Locke said softly.

I swallowed hard. “I can’t.”

“Just a few bites, please, William.”

My throat felt tight and dry. I took a large sip of water, then lifted my spoon, resisting the urge to fling it at Locke’s sympathetic face before trying to taste the food.

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Locke asked once we were back in the carriage.

“No,” I answered, not even turning to look at him, my gaze fixed on the fields and farmland passing by outside.

“Maybe it would help,” Locke said.

“No,” I repeated.

I could still feel his gaze on me.

“When you are ready, I’m here,” he said simply in the end. 

I kept my eyes on a faraway farm, slowly disappearing in the distance. 

“You are not alone,” Locke added.

I thought of my mother. Of my father. Of my siblings. 

“I would rather be alone,” I said. 

Locke hummed.

“I want to go back to the Sanctum.” My voice sounded really small. “And I want these off.” I flexed my wrists against the small leather bands.

I glanced at Locke, and his jaw was tight, his brows furrowed. “I know,” he said. 

The carriage jolted as the wheels hit a rough patch in the road, and I let my head fall against the side of the carriage, the ache swelling painfully in my chest.

“Also I want them to stay on forever,” I whispered. “You know, so I wont— you know, cause more— problems.”

Locke let out a deep breath, and then he was raising and turning, and suddenly sitting next to me again. 

“That’s not how this works,” he said. He reached out and carefully took my wrists in his hands, his thumbs brushing over the leather bands. “These armbands are meant to protect you and others. They are a tool, not a sentence.” He squeezed gently before letting go. “They don’t define who you are, or what you are capable of.”

I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat growing bigger.

“You have got plenty of time,” he said. “And plenty of opportunities. You will get all the help I can give to learn to control your power as safely as possible.”

I turned away, back towards the window, where the road now ran past a small copse. In the distance, a herd of deer grazed.

“I’ve never really thought about this before,” I said.

“About what?”

“About how long… how long magicians live. How… long .”

Locke hummed—his voice both understanding and questioning at once.

“I don’t want to meet my family,” I declared. “Not at all. I’d do anything instead, if I didn’t have to go to the palace. Anything would be better.” I paused for a moment; my hands clenched into fists on my knees. “I’ll run five hundred laps around the training circle, if you like. Even five thousand. I’ll learn every sigil in the world. Even the ones in dead languages. I’ll learn them all. Or I’ll spend a year in the greenhouse, picking the everbearing piper-peppers until their sap strips the skin from my palms, and if I have to, I’ll keep picking them with my fingers reduced to bones, and—”

My voice broke, and Locke’s hand found mine, gently squeezing it.

“William—”

“No,” I shook my head. “Anything would be better. You can ban me from the library forever. The Council can publicly flog me, I don’t care, just—”

“William.” A little firmer this time.

“But meanwhile I’ve wasted twelve years,” I said, my voice now empty and flat. “I can live for a terribly long time, but— they— my— my family can’t. And I’ve wasted twelve years.”

Locke drew me closer, and my head fell on his shoulder.

“No amount of punishment or endless drills will change what’s already happened,” he murmured. “I wish it wouldn’t hurt you this much now, though.”

I stayed still against him, the steady rise and fall of his breath the only sound between us.

 

Locke didn’t wait until dinnertime before stopping again. The inn stood at the edge of a village, terribly small but friendly and comfortable, almost empty at this hour. I still wasn’t hungry, but the smell of roast lamb was so good that Locke only had to coax me a little before I emptied my plate. He booked a room and let me read by the light of an old, rusty lantern. I offered to sleep on the floor—which he didn’t even acknowledge, simply pulling me into bed beside him. I fell asleep in his arms.

The next day was a bit calmer. I started on another book Rowland had assigned—The Anatomy of Magical Feedback Loops and Failures—while outside the mountains receded behind us and rolling hills gradually gave way to flatter countryside. We passed through a large town, then crossed a wide stone bridge. In the carriage, the only sounds were my occasional shuffling and the soft rustle of pages as I turned them.

More inns. More jolting along, bends, crossroads, the quiet creak of the wheels. Grazing lambs, a kestrel circling overhead, jackdaws on the ploughed fields. Even the sun came out in the afternoon.

In the evening, Locke gently took the book from my hands and forbade me from reading further. I grumbled but let him pull me close.

I woke to the smell of smoke and the crackling of wood in the fire, gasping for air. It was just a dream —the room was completely dark around me. Instinctively, I raised my hand. Summoning the light-sphere was a simple, ingrained, familiar movement—

The sudden wrench in my stomach.

I curled up on my side and tried to sob quietly so as not to wake Locke.

Fingers on my shoulder. A soft, humming voice. Short sentences telling me it was all right, that he was here, that I wasn’t alone. I buried my face in the pillow—with all the other feelings came now the guilt that he couldn’t sleep because of me—and tried to steady my breathing. Locke held me tightly.

 

The carriage rattled on monotonously on the third day of our journey. The words on the page had already begun to blur before my eyes—Warding and Containment: Theory and Practice of Arcane Confinement—but I forced myself, sentence by sentence, page by page, to keep reading. It wasn’t exactly a thrilling book—dry and dull and tame, just as I’d expect from Rowland—but it was still better than other thoughts.

Other thoughts…

By then we were travelling alongside the river, and every time I glanced out of the window, I couldn’t help but think that this same river flowed through the capital. It was the river spanned by the bridge leading to the palace. I’d once pushed my brother into it during a ceremony (he was a perfectly good swimmer; all that fuss he made afterwards was completely unnecessary).

The capital.

The palace.

My family—even that idiot Lander, who genuinely thought he was upsetting me by not speaking to me for three whole months after the river incident.

I slammed the book shut so suddenly that Locke, who’d been staring out the window, flinched.

Hah. Good.

I tossed the book onto the seat beside me.

“So,” I said. “You’re pretty old, aren’t you?”

Locke turned towards me slowly. His eyes narrowed just slightly. “I’m older than you, that much is certain.”

“What was it like when fire was invented? Was it exciting? Terrifying? Did you help carry the first torch down from the mountain?”

“It was a cold winter,” Locke replied flatly. His face betrayed nothing. “We were grateful for the fire.”

My chest felt oddly tight. “Aren’t you fed up with it by now? With constantly having to deal with me?”

Locke raised an eyebrow. “No,” he said.

My voice sounded dry, brittle. “I’m sure in all those years—in all your terribly ancient years—you’ve had… What, dozens? Of boys. Pretty, obedient ones who didn’t talk back. Pleasant. Quiet. The sort who would drop to their knees at a single glance and mindlessly follow your every command.”

Understanding flickered on Locke’s face. But his gaze stayed on me, calm and steady. “Yes,” he said. “Some were like that.”

A sharp drop deep in my stomach. “And you liked that?” I pressed, my voice cold, sour. “You liked them soft, pliable, stupid—following you around like lost puppies?”

“I liked them as they were,” Locke said, and this time his gaze turned a bit heavier. “Please don’t forget that you are talking about not just me, but other people, William.”

I gave a hollow laugh and leaned my head back against the seat. “How perfectly convenient. No arguments. No questions. Just a string of delicate little creatures sighing after you.”

“Will—”

“Maybe that’s what you should’ve gone for this time, too,” I cut in, ignoring the warning in his voice. “Someone who would sit and smile sweetly and polish your boots before breakfast.”

Locke exhaled slowly, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “I don’t want someone who sits and smiles sweetly.”

“No?” I tilted my head mockingly. “What, do you like the challenge now? You like having to chase me down every time I start breaking rules or—” my throat tightened “—or start falling apart?”

Silence.

Just long enough to make me uncomfortable.

Then, “I don’t like seeing you fall apart,” Locke said softly. “But I like you. Even when you are like this.”

I gritted my teeth. “You shouldn’t be this patient.”

Locke’s gaze softened, but his voice stayed steady. “Probably not.”

“That’s not a compliment,” I muttered, suddenly feeling too hot in my own skin. “It’s… pathetic. To keep showing up. To keep—” I waved a hand vaguely, unable to find the right words “—sitting here.”

He even had the audacity to let out a soft laugh. “Well, I’m staying.”

“You could’ve had someone else. Someone easier. Someone who doesn’t pick fights, who doesn’t throw things, who doesn’t—”

Who doesn’t fall apart in your arms. 

His hand found mine, a slow, careful touch, and I hated that I didn’t pull away.

“Everything’s going to be all right, William,” he said softly.

“No, it’s not.” I pulled my hand free, fingers curling tightly into my lap. “It’s not going to be all right.”

“You are allowed to be angry,” Locke said. “You are allowed to be afraid.”

“No,” I hissed. “I should be— You should turn this carriage around, take me back to the Sanctum, put me in chains if you like. Or better, take me straight to the Council and tell them to flog me finally. Or—” My throat tightened, my words rushing faster, harsher. “Or lock me in the lowest warding cell until I stop causing problems. Leave me there. Leave me until I finally—”

“William.” Locke’s voice cut through mine like iron. Sharp, cold, final.

I fell silent, but I didn’t stop shaking.

“I think,” Locke said, very slowly, very deliberately, “that it was barely a few days ago when you and I had a very serious conversation about how you are not allowed to punish yourself.”

I flinched.

He let the silence stretch between us, heavy and uncomfortable.

I couldn’t meet his eyes.

Then Locke exhaled. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice softening, yet the firmness still lingered. 

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of the wheels creaking beneath us, and the soft rattle of the carriage.

“I just… don’t want to feel like this anymore,” I muttered, voice barely a whisper.

“I know,” Locke said. “I know.”

His hand stayed on mine, calm, unwavering.

I closed my eyes for a moment. “I hate this,” I said quietly.

“I know,” Locke repeated. “We will face it together.” 

I looked out the window at that fucking river, wondering about the capital, about the palace. About my family.

I sniffled. Locke produced a handkerchief and pressed it into my hand.

We traveled in silence as the tears passed.

It was still only early afternoon, but I felt like I could fall asleep instantly as I rested my head on Locke’s shoulder.

“I have an older brother,” I said quietly. “Lander.”

“I know,” Locke replied gently.

“We never really got along,” I continued. “He was three years older than me… well, still is… so he always thought that just because he was older, he was so much better at everything. Our tutor taught us a bunch of things at once, but he was always so slow, and I was dying of boredom waiting for him to finish the simplest task…”

I felt Locke smile.

“Once, I pushed him into the river,” I said, pointing out the window. “There was some ceremony in the city, something really boring and long, and we were standing there on the platform on the riverside, all dressed up, waiting for it to be over. Lander kept grumbling at me—stand up straighter, don’t try to sidle away, put away the book I’d snuck in under my coat… stupid things like that. So, one moment, I just... pushed him into the river.”

He gave a small, quiet chuckle. “Not a single detail of this story surprises me.” He glanced at me from the corner of his eyes. “Are you nervous about meeting him?”

I’m nervous about meeting everyone,” I shrugged. “But Lander might be happier if I had actually died.”

A moment of thoughtful silence. Locke’s fingers kept brushing my shoulder. “Well, you were both children,” he said at last. “I don’t think you expected your brother to be too thrilled about getting soaked in the river,” he gave me a small, knowing smile. “But maybe it’s time to stop judging each other by those moments, don’t you think?”

I sighed reluctantly, sinking lower into the seat and burying my face in his shoulder.

“I want to go home,” I muttered. Then, swallowing hard, I added, “To the Sanctum.”

Locke’s arm tightened around my shoulder, and I allowed myself to melt into his embrace.

”It will be all right,” he murmured. “Everything will be all right.”

 

Another evening in an inn. A sleepless night.

By midday the next day, the capital was visible in the distance, and I tried to breathe deeply while sitting in the carriage, repeating Locke’s words to myself, over and over and over again, almost obsessively: Everything will be all right.

Notes:

Thank you for reading ^^ Also I absolutely love it when you share your opinions.
Also again: I roughly know what I still want to write and where I would like to end up, but have no exact idea how to get there. If there are things you think would be sad to leave out, or plot holes I have completely forgotten about, please let me know!

Chapter 48: Family

Summary:

Time for family reunion!!!

Notes:

I had a completely free day yesterday, and well, this is what happened.
It’s soft, because I have had enough angst already, and also because it seems I’m soft too. Everyone’s soft.

The noise of the city filtered softly into the carriage: the clatter of horses’ hooves, the rumble of wheels over the cobbled streets, the shouts of coachmen.

I sat in silence, completely motionless, my gaze fixed on the window—on the palace rising before us.

Huge walls. Ornate towers. Flags and banners lazily fluttering in the wind. Tall windows, semi-circular balconies...

They had rebuilt it to look as it once did—more or less. But as my eyes drifted over the walls, the arches and the vaults, I immediately noticed the differences. The window that had been made larger. The tower that had once been square, now rounded. The balcony that was now missing, and the other one that hadn’t been there before.

My eyes followed the line, like a seam in time, where the older bricks of the building met the almost imperceptibly paler bricks of the newly rebuilt wing.

The palace was beautiful—they said it was the finest building in the kingdom.

I couldn’t stop looking.

I was gripping my fingers so tightly that my joints ached.

“How are you?” Locke asked quietly.

“I thought it would look more different,” I murmured. “But it isn’t.”

Locke leaned forward, following my gaze towards the palace looming ahead of us. “No,” he said, carefully, “it isn’t.”

The road led straight to the palace entrance—I could already see the wide gate approaching, the bridge, the banners, the guards’ uniforms.

“There’s a little courtyard behind that building,” I said, nodding towards a lower wing. “I used to sneak out there at night when I couldn’t sleep.” I bit my lip. “But over there, where that window is, there should be the west terrace. And the green pavilion...” I swallowed hard. “Gone.”

The carriage slowed. The guards signalled us through. We rolled under the gate.

I took a deep breath, and Locke briefly placed his hand on my knee. I didn’t look at him. I turned away from the window too, but from the corner of my eye I still saw the trees we passed—smaller, younger, not the towering, centuries-old trees that used to line this road.

I shut my eyes so I wouldn’t have to see anything, but then I saw the burning library instead, and my nine-year-old self running through the city.

I can’t do this.

Why did we come here.

I’m sure everyone hates me.

Please, please, please, let’s turn back.

I didn’t say a single one of these thoughts out loud—Locke wouldn’t have allowed me to leave. He would only have been kind and understanding.

Ugh.

The carriage stopped. 

We were getting out.

The palace doors yawned open before us with a heavy groan, and suddenly there were guards everywhere—crisp uniforms, polished buttons, ceremonial sashes draped just so across their shoulders.

I didn’t know where to look.

The halls were bright. Familiar. White marble and polished gold. Footsteps echoed on the stone floors, the sound sharp and distant at the same time, as if I wasn’t really there.

I tried to tug the sleeve of my shirt down further, so that not even a trace of the armbands would be visible. 

I heard voices. Councillor Locke. Prince Arvil. 

The collar of my uniform chafed against my neck. Everyone else was dressed in silks, tailored coats, shining boots, and I suddenly felt too plain within the high walls of the palace.

Or maybe just too foreign.

Conversations around me. I heard Locke murmuring to the guards, but the words didn’t land. I was staring at the corridor we passed—pale blue ceiling, silver-threaded curtains. Just like in my memories.

It even smelled the same. Beeswax polish. Old paper. Fresh flowers.

A corner. Another corridor. I remembered the time I fell and skinned my knees there, running away from my brother Eldric after I snitched his ceremonial sword. 

That alcove there…

That archway.

That passage, leading toward the kitchens.

That window…

I kept walking. I heard my name a few times, but I couldn’t tell if I answered.

We passed a courtyard. I remembered running through it in the rain, bare feet slapping against the slippery stone. 

Another corridor. I remembered hiding under the carved table in the corner once.

I walked past it now, feeling like a ghost.

There were new tapestries. New flowers in the vases. New guards.

But the same staircase.

The same railing.

The same crack in the step where I tripped when I was seven.

We kept walking.

A left turn at the great stairs. Down past the Hall of Heraldry. Past the audience chamber.

I don’t know where I noticed we weren’t heading for the throne room. That’s where it should have begun. That’s where protocol dictated I should present myself first—kneel before the king, speak my name, await judgment.

More corridors. Another courtyard. My legs were growing slower, heavier.

The last few steps took me forever.

A guard knocked, briefly, on the gilded door in front of us before stepping aside.

I knew this hallway.

The tapestries were new, but the scent was the same—lavender oil, the soft trace of parchment and tea.

The door swung open, and my pulse was rushing so loudly in my ears that everything else seemed to blur.

Locke’s voice. “It’s all right.” I shook my head. Then his palm was on my lower back, pushing me gently forward. 

I stepped inside, and the door shut behind me with a soft thud that felt painfully loud.

And there she was—my mother.

Not in the throne room, not surrounded by courtiers and guards. Alone.

Standing by the window, her back to the door, dressed in something soft, something simple. A shawl wrapped loosely around her shoulders. Her hair mostly pinned up, but a few strands had fallen free.

She didn’t turn at first. “I thought I would see you first.”

I hadn’t heard her voice in twelve years.

“I thought I would see you first,” she said again, softer now. “Before the court. Before the others.”

Slowly, she turned to face me.

“Arvil,” she said. Her voice was trembling. 

The same voice that once called me back from climbing too high trees or from running into the stream in the winter.

Something inside me twisted violently. I stood still, my back as straight as she taught me, my hands clenched so tightly behind my back that I thought I would break a finger.

She was older. Majestic. The same eyes I saw every time I passed a mirror.

“Arvil,” she repeated, taking a small, unsure step towards me. 

It wasn’t anger in her voice.

It wasn’t disgust.

It was… hope .

Small. Raw. Shattering.

“You are alive.”

I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. Bow? Speak? Run away?

She was already moving across the room, and I barely managed a breath before she wrapped her arms around me.

I stood there frozen. 

Her hand curled into the back of my coat, and she held me fiercely, so fiercely, as if she was afraid I’d vanish if she let go.

“My son,” she whispered. “My little son.”

I should have said something. Anything. But I could barely remember how to stand.

She stepped back just enough to see me, though her hands lingered on my shoulders.

Her gaze wandered over me—quiet, careful. When her eyes paused at my hair, she reached out and brushed her fingers lightly through it.

“You changed it,” she said softly.

I shrugged, unable to speak, unable to meet her eyes. 

Silence. I could feel her eyes on me. Her light touch on my shoulder. The heavy weight of her gaze…

“I love you,” she said.

The words fell so simply, so gently between us that for a moment I almost didn’t understand them.

My throat tightened. “You don’t—”

“I always have,” she said simply.

Not a question of whether I deserved it. Not a bargain to earn it back.

It was as if she simply declared it, and that made it true.

Well, she was the queen. She could have done that.

I stood frozen, my hands trembling at my sides.

I remembered the autumn festival, lying on a blanket in the gardens, her hand on my head as she read to me from the old stories. I remembered the library, how she let me stay longer than I was supposed to, both of us pretending we didn’t hear my tutor calling. I remembered the quiet afternoons when she taught me how to fold paper boats. The way she had scolded me when I climbed the roofs and nearly fell down. The precious sound of her laughter on quiet winter nights.

She couldn’t stop looking at me.

Her hand slipped down, catching mine. She squeezed it lightly, as if testing whether I was real.

“Have you eaten?” she asked softly, like it was the most natural thing in the world, and that question—that small, ordinary question—finally broke something in me, and I lowered my head, unable to stop the tears.

She pulled me into another fierce embrace—a steady, warm presence. She stroked my back slowly, like she used to when I was small and inconsolable over skinned elbows and broken toys.

We stood like that for a long time—long enough for my breathing to settle, for my tears to dry into tight, salty lines on my skin.

Then—

Some commotion at the door. Loud footsteps, sharp voices. The clank of armor, the careful, but raised tone of the guard.

The door slammed open.

“To hell with you, Vil!” I barely turned before Lander crossed the room in four strides and his fist smashed into my jaw.

A white-hot crack of pain burst across my face, making my vision swim. My head snapped to the side, my balance slipped, and I stumbled back against my mother, almost crashing into her.

“Lander!” Mother’s voice rose.

I braced on instinct, tasting iron in my mouth.

“That’s what you deserve!” Lander barked, but his voice was already shaking. “Twelve years! You let us think you were dead! You let me think—” His words broke off as his chest heaved.

Before I could recover, he dragged me into a crushing hug, locking his arms around me so tightly I thought my ribs would break.

I couldn’t breathe.

I couldn’t think.

He was trembling.

“You’re alive,” he rasped into my shoulder. “You little shit—you’re alive.”

I blinked, still stunned, my jaw throbbing under his weight. “You hit me.”

“You deserved it.” His voice cracked again, rough with some horrible mix of relief and fury. “I thought you were dead. ”

“You hit me in front of Mother.”

“She should’ve hit you too.”

The Queen let out a soft, disbelieving huff—somewhere between a sigh and a laugh—and I couldn’t tell if she was going to scold us or cry again.

From the corner of my eye, I saw movement at the door.

Ilara.

She hadn’t rushed in like Lander. She stood just inside the threshold, calm, composed, not a hair out of place. She wore the dark uniform of the royal guard, silver insignia gleaming on her shoulder. Her hands were folded behind her back. Her boots shone like she’d polished them just a minute ago.

But her eyes were wide.

She just stared at me. At us.

“Vil,” she said at last, quietly. “Well… nice to see you.”

“I—” I was still standing, stunned, in Lander’s crushing hug, and he didn’t show any signs of moving soon. I swallowed hard. “Nice to see you too, Ilara.”

Ilara crossed the room, steady but slow. She stopped in front of me, her brow creased, her jaw tight.

“You look terrible,” she said flatly.

 “You look terrifying,” I croaked.

“Good.” Her mouth twitched, then she as good as kicked Lander aside, and pulled me into a hug herself.

“You’re an idiot,” she murmured against my shoulder. 

“I know,” I choked.

“I missed you,” she added.

I stood still, my chest rising and falling too fast. She squeezed me a bit tighter. 

Lander was scrubbing at his face. “I will punch you many more times,” he grumbled.

“Lander,” mother said. Just his name. Soft, but with that unmistakable weight of maternal warning.

He glanced at her, half-guilty, half-defiant.Then he turned his eyes briefly back to me: “Later.”

Mother sighed. Her gaze softened, then she just turned away, pretending to adjust the shawl on her shoulders. “You should eat.”

I blinked. Ilara stepped back but kept her hand resting on my shoulder. 

“I will have something brought,” mother said. “Sit with us for a while. Before the court.”

I gulped. The court. Right. 

I just nodded. Mother summoned a maid. Lander was watching me thoughtfully, and I stepped closer to Ilara before he could decide to land another punch. My jaw still ached. I’m going to look absolutely marvellous in front of my father and the entire court with a big, fresh bruise on my chin.

 

“His Royal Highness Prince Arvil Thalen of Arundel.” The herald’s voice rang clear across the marble chamber.

A ripple passed through the court—some gasps, some whispers, some heads craning for a better look. I walked forward on shaky legs.

I didn’t know where Locke was.

The king and queen sat on the high dais, the court assembled in neat, glittering rows at their feet. I saw Lander standing beside the throne, dressed like the perfect prince, Ilara just behind him in her guard’s uniform, hands clasped behind her back, her expression tightly controlled. Eldric looked exactly like the perfect crown prince: distinguished, composed, flawless. And there was Aflin, and Liora, and Ruvan...

I stopped at the base of the dais.

I bowed low, then dropped to one knee.

A silence stretched.

I could feel the eyes on me—hundreds of them, sharp and heavy.

Finally, the king spoke, his voice calm but edged with something unreadable. “You return to us after twelve years, Prince Arvil. Do you come in loyalty to your crown?”

His voice echoed, sharp in the high, vaulted hall.

I swallowed.

I dragged my eyes up to his. They were as pale and sharp as I remembered. I forced my voice to stay steady: “Yes, Your Majesty.”

His gaze flicked over me, assessing. “Do you stand here as prince of this kingdom, or as a magician of the Sanctum?”

I hesitated. “I stand as both,” I said quietly. “...Your Majesty.”

Another silence.

The king’s voice turned sharper. “Do you understand the gravity of your absence?”

“I—” What? “I understand, Your Majesty.” 

I probably didn’t.

The king’s gaze was unreadable. “Then rise.”

I got to my feet, my movements slow, uncertain.

The king’s gaze drifted briefly to the bruise blooming on my chin. “Approach,” he said.

I climbed the three steps to the dais.

“You have much to answer for,” he said quietly, so that perhaps only I could hear. “But I’m glad you are here.”

He turned his head to the herald and gave a small nod. “Clear the hall.”

The herald struck his staff. “The king will speak in private. The court is dismissed.”

There was a flurry of movement—robes sweeping, boots scraping, polite murmurs as nobles filed out of the hall. Some lingered, reluctant to be parted from the spectacle. I caught sight of Locke and he gave me the smallest nod.

When the heavy doors finally shut, the chamber felt impossibly large and strangely quiet.

The king leaned forward, resting his elbow on the arm of his throne.

“Well,” he said, his voice far less formal, but still heavy. “You have grown.”

“I— I’m— I’m sorry.” Not for growing—for running away.

The king tilted his head. “You look like your mother.”

I opened my mouth but no more words came out.

“He looks like someone who’s about to faint,” Ilara said from the side.

Lander folded his arms with a smug grin. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

The queen gave them both a sharp look, but then she stood up, placed a hand on my shoulder and guided me away to sit.

“I’m sorry I—” I repeated. “I’m sorry.”

I let her guide me to the nearest seat at the foot of the dais. My legs didn’t exactly agree with the motion, but I managed to sit without completely crumpling.

The king watched me carefully, his thumb brushing against his chin.

“You were a child,” he said finally. Not cold, not forgiving—just a fact.

“But I—” My throat caught. I forced the words out anyway. “I burned down half the palace.”

Lander snorted. “We noticed.”

“Lander,” mother warned.

He shrugged. “What? We did .”

“Not. Now.” Her gaze was steel, but her thumb brushed lightly over my shoulder. “You are here now, Arvil,” she said, leaning down and cupping my face with her hands. “That’s all that matters.”

I gulped, staring down at the floor.

Then came a flood of questions—mostly from my siblings—that I neither could nor wanted to answer.

What exactly happened that night when the palace burned down?

Did I really live in a monastery?

Why didn’t I come back?

Was I afraid of them?

Was I really in the palace when the Dusk attacked?

Why didn’t I come back?

Was I really arrested?

Why didn’t I come back?

“I couldn’t!” I snapped in the end. “I didn’t know how!” It came out louder than I meant, sharp and cracking, and the silence that followed was so deep I could feel it in my bones.

No one moved.

I swallowed hard and shoved the heel of my palm against my aching jaw. “Sorry. Sorry. I—” 

“You didn’t have time for your boring family once you were a magician,” Lander remarked dryly.

I exhaled, rolling my eyes. “I didn’t have time,” I nodded. “I was busy being dead, you know.”

The words slipped out dry and brittle, and the sharpness in the room cracked.

Someone laughed. “There he is.”

Ilara’s mouth twitched with the smallest smile. “That’s the Vil I remember.”

Mother’s hand was warm on my shoulder again. “You were always quick with that tongue,” she murmured.

“Even when he was wrong,” Lander added.

“Especially when I was wrong,” I muttered, burying my face in my hands. 

The king’s voice cut in, low but certain. “You are my son. That does not change. The court will test you, the people will question you, but you will stand as a son of this house.”

There was weight in those words. A warning. A promise. Protection.

“You may stumble, you may not have all the answers, but you will not disappear again.”

I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to nod.

I’m an apprentice at the Sanctum under Locke’s mentorship, and they all know that by now. How could I possibly disappear?

Ilara’s hand ruffled my hair roughly. “If you try, I will chase you.”

Lander pointed at me, mock-stern. “And I will keep punching you.”

“You just got lucky earlier,” I muttered. “Caught me off guard. Otherwise, you wouldn’t stand a chance against me.”

Lander simply raised an eyebrow, giving me a rather mocking appraisal. I held his gaze, though truthfully I wasn’t at all so sure of myself—Lander was still taller than me, his shoulders broader, and my jaw was still throbbing from his punch.

“We’ll see, little brother,” he said at last. “We’ll see.”

 

 

Dinner was both better and worse at the same time.
The long table groaned  under the weight of the food. Roasted lamb crusted with rosemary. A whole trout poached in wine. Honey-glazed birds stuffed with chestnuts. Bowls of spiced lentils with apricots, buttery layered potatoes, sticky glazed onions, roasted beets, soft cheeses with honeycombs and walnuts, golden pies filled with venison, mushrooms, and stewed fruits, dark rye bread and sweet rolls with pale butter and berry preserves. Platters of cured meats and smoked ham, bright carrot salads, pickled cucumbers, sweet peas, almond pastries dusted in sugar, tiny fig tarts, layers of honey cake, cherries, bowls of sugared almonds, and more.

A small orchestra played softly from the gallery above, and the servants moved constantly, bringing chilled wine and spiced cider and pear cordial. The room was filled with noise; conversations and laughter and just the occasional side-glances towards me. Three of my siblings had spouses and children, and their chatter and laughter echoed through the grand hall. 

One of them found me in the corridor on the way to the hall—hurried footsteps, bouncing curls, wide, excited eyes.

“Uncle Vil!” the little girl called out, and I blinked in surprise, not even knowing which sibling’s child she was or where she had suddenly come from.

Then small arms wrapped tightly around my legs—her head only just reached my waist. She hugged me as if I weren’t a stranger, as if we weren’t meeting for the first time. Then she stepped back and looked up at me with shining, curious eyes.

“Is it true you’re a magician?”

“I—Um—” I shot an uncertain glance at Locke standing beside me, who simply smiled in amusement. I patted the little girl’s shoulder. “Yes.”

“Oooh!” she squealed. “Do magic for me!”

A painful tug in my chest. My eyes drifted to my wrist, to the leather straps peeking out from beneath my sleeve. “Well, I—”

I cast a pleading look at Locke. He tilted his head a little. A deep breath, an understanding gaze, a patient nod and a smile towards the girl. He knelt beside her and made an elaborate show of his hands, adding far more unnecessary movements and flickering sparks than any proper spell would ever require—then, from the burst of glowing blue magic, a shimmering, sparkling rabbit leapt onto the floor and hopped away down the corridor.

The little girl squealed with delight and chased after it, just as her parents turned the corner—Eldric, with his wife Wrien’s arm threaded through his.

The rabbit was still hopping around the dinner table. Locke sank into quiet conversation with my father. My mother kept sending me glances that were equally loving and worried at the same time, as if she were afraid that if I left her sight, I might simply disappear. Or that I wasn’t eating enough.

But I was finally not the centre of attention. Ilara sat next to me and, instead of questioning me, she finally just talked—about her daily life. She was part of the royal guard now, in quite a high position. She trained. She went riding. She gave orders, and she enjoyed it immensely.

I let her carry the weight of the conversation, her voice steady and familiar in a way that made something deep in me ache. I nodded along. I asked questions when I remembered how to. I ate when she pushed food toward me.

At some point, Lander dropped into the seat across from us, balancing a goblet in one hand and a cherry tart in the other. He propped his elbow on the table and gave me a lopsided grin. 

“You are being quiet, Vil,” he remarked.

It wasn’t all that surprising. Even as a child, I wasn’t loud. I wasn’t exactly the well-behaved, quietly sitting little prince either—but I wasn’t loud.

I set my fork down and gave him a flat look. “I’m saving my strength to throw you off the balcony later.”

Lander just laughed, picked up a pastry and wandered off to argue with Aflin about some agricultural decision. 

My mother continued to cast me concerned glances. I suspected it was her doing that no one asked me a single question about the past twelve years during the dinner.

 

Late at night, alone in my room, the world seemed too quiet.

The walls were wrong. The bed was too big. The pillows were softer than I remembered. Someone had carefully placed a vase of flowers on the table, too neat, too perfect. I couldn’t sit still.

The afternoon had gone better than I had ever dared to imagine. No one had screamed at me. No one had banished me yet. There were questions, yes—but also laughter. Also warmth. Also... family .

It didn’t feel real.

I paced the length of the room. I pressed my forehead to the cool glass of the window. I sat. I stood again.

Eventually, I slipped out.

The corridors were quiet, just the occasional sweep of a servant’s footsteps or the soft clink of armor from the night watch. I moved quickly, following instincts more than conscious thoughts—across the inner courtyard, through a narrow stone passage. I crossed a familiar balcony, climbed a column (easier than I expected, honestly), and ducked out onto the palace roof.

The night air was cold and sharp, and I finally, finally could breathe.

The city lights stretched beyond the palace walls, a hundred fires and lanterns and light-spheres glittering in the dark.

It was peaceful up here.

At least felt good for a few minutes.

And then, just like I used to do—I kept going.

I knew Locke’s room was on the east wing. I also knew the angle of the lower roof tiles and the width of the ledge beneath his window.

I tapped the glass.  No answer.

I tapped again, harder this time.

Locke appeared a moment later, pulling the curtains aside, his eyes going wide with shock. He flung the window open. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Visiting,” I said, my breath a little ragged from the climb.

“We are on the third floor,” he hissed.

“Yes,” I shrugged, swinging my leg over the sill and dropping inside. “They gave you one of the nicest rooms.”

Locke crossed his arms, entirely unamused. “You were supposed to be resting.”

“Can’t sleep,” I said, straightening up and adjusting my crumpled shirt.

Locke’s gaze softened. For a moment, we just looked at each other—then I stepped forward and hugged him.

What’s one more hug after so many today?

He was still for a moment, then his arms wrapped around me, pulling me closer. He pressed a small kiss to my temple.

“Of course not. You’re the most restless person I know.” He sighed, swaying me a bit in the hug. “Also, you had a really tiring day, William.”

“Definitely not gonna be my favourite day,” I mumbled. 

Locke chuckled, and I gently pulled away from his embrace.

“Sit,” he said softly, gesturing to the armchair by the fireplace. I sank down, and he pressed a cup of warm tea into my hands. I didn’t even know where it had came from.

“So,” he leaned against the desk. “The dinner went well, didn’t it?”

I shrugged. “Better than I thought.”

“Everyone’s happy to see you, William,” Locke said softly.

I shrugged again. “I refuse to believe they don’t hate me.”

“No one ever hated you.”

I took a shuddering breath; the cup trembling slightly in my hands. “Well, I did.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Do you still?”

I didn’t answer.

Outside, the wind stirred faintly against the glass. Locke reached over and his fingers slid into my hair, not holding, just combing through the curls slowly.

“I’m proud of you,” he murmured. “You are going to be fine.”

I sighed, leaning into his touch. “Why are you this nice,” I mumbled.

“I’m not nice,” he replied. “I’m telling you the truth.”

“It’s nice, though,” I whispered. “You’re supposed to be my strict mentor, aren’t you?”

A small chuckle. “Oh, I am.” His eyes glinted with dry amusement in the low light. “You are in so much trouble for climbing the palace.”

I gave him a half-smile. “No, I’m not.”

Locke sighed softly. “No, you are not.”

I smiled, sipping the tea. I didn’t feel exactly good—everything was still vibrating and hollow and roaring and swaying— but I felt, for the first time after so many years, a little more solid. 

A little more like myself.

Notes:

I know this chapter has been long-awaited, and that it could have turned out in so many other ways... please let me know what you think <3

Chapter 49: Passage II.

Summary:

The journey back to the Sanctum. A few small conversations; some small intimacy.

Notes:

Had sooo many free time now *.*

Breakfast the following morning was quieter. Locke sat beside me, and this time only my parents were there, along with Lander, Ilara, and Eldric. The servants quietly poured the drinks and then left us alone.

Since no one asked any questions now, I told them a little about the past. Not about the fire—just that it happened and I escaped—but I spoke about the monastery, because talking about everyday life there was surprisingly easy. I told them about the day Locke and I first met (though I left out the book thievery and some other dull details). I talked about studying at the Sanctum. I even mentioned the appearance of the Dusk, though I saw in Locke’s glances that he noticed how many details I left out. But, after all, they already knew—they were there in the palace gardens. Father spoke with Ashmore and with Locke. Also, I was descended from Lysander on my mother’s side, who had negotiated several times with the Council and had agreed to help uncover the past.

Then, when I grew tired of the shocked, pitying, curious, and worried looks, I stuffed my mouth with eggs and pretended to be completely absorbed in my now-cold breakfast.

I spent the morning walking around the palace. I went to see the rebuilt library—Locke dragged me out of there before my panic could fully take hold. I only broke down sobbing again when we accidentally found the portrait in one of the corridors—the one painted in my honour, showing me at nine years old, small and cute and red-haired; and there were flowers beneath it and candles still burning.

“But I’m already alive,” I mumbled as Locke gently rubbed my shoulder.

“You always were,” he said softly.

Later, I showed him my favourite spots in the garden. Ilara gave us a tour of the royal guard’s training grounds and challenged Locke to a sword duel. Ilara was brilliant; they spun and flew and glided around each other so swiftly I could barely follow their movements—it all looked so light and effortless, as if they were simply dancing. I thought Locke was better, though; I suspected they called it a draw out of his politeness.

Then we were already preparing to leave.

Ilara promised she’d visit, even if I didn’t want her to. Lander threatened me with various tortures if I didn’t return soon. Liora hugged me tightly while her children ran in circles around us. Eldric’s little daughter—the one Locke had conjured the rabbit for last time—was now chasing a magical cat, and she hugged Locke goodbye as well.

The King had a private word with me. 

We had never really spent much time together in my childhood. He had ruling to do, governing, diplomacy to handle, all sorts of important officials and nobles to deal with, not to mention my six older siblings. Mostly, we only saw each other at formal dinners, at ceremonies, banquets, and public appearances—which I always hated. Sometimes at the occasional official lesson, where he’d teach something to me and my siblings, or more often just test how we were progressing with our studies. And, well, when I misbehaved badly enough—badly enough that my tutors gave up—and I was marched to his study.

I felt the same now; as if I were nine years old again, standing in front of his desk, trying to look anywhere but at him, while he lectured me with quiet anger and deep disappointment.

We were alone in his study now, the heavy door closed behind me. The room hadn’t changed. The same carved desk, the same tall-backed chair, the same faint scent of old parchment and wood polish.

I felt small. My hands twitched at my sides, half-expecting to be chided, half-expecting to be dismissed.

The king studied me in silence for a long moment, his eyes sharp, unreadable.

He spoke about duty. About responsibility. He didn’t scold me, not really. But he made it very clear that the name I carried was not something I could put down just because I’d been away for twelve years.

He didn’t care that I served the Sanctum now. He didn’t care that I might spend most of my time away from the palace.

“You carry this name,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

You will carry it, whether you want to or not.

“Yes, father,” I kept repeating.

“You will not have the luxury of vanishing again.” There was an edge in his voice now, so sharp it made me glance up at him

“I know, father.”

A hard, heavy tone. “I have lost you once, Arvil. I will not lose you a second time.”

“I— Yes, I— You won’t, father.”

“You will write,” he said.

“I will try,” I shrugged.

“You will write,” he repeated.

“I—”

“It would ease her heart to see you more often,” he said, his voice turning gentle. “If you can’t visit more often, you will at least write.”

I swallowed hard. “Yes, father.”

Later, my mother held me for a long time. Her arms wrapped around me, motionless and silent. I wanted to say something—thank you, I love you, I’m sorry—but the words got tangled and lost in my throat. Instead, I just stood still and let myself be held, feeling her heartbeat steady against my own.

When she finally pulled back, her eyes were bright and a little wet, but she smiled. “Come home soon, my little son,” she whispered.

I nodded,  the lump in my throat making it hard to speak.

 

The carriage rattled over uneven stone and dirt, the steady creak of the wheels setting a rhythm I’d stopped hearing hours ago. I sat pressed against the window, my arms crossed, my fingers digging into my sleeves, half-watching the forests and winding roads slip past. The sky was too bright, the air too thin, the space too small.

I could still feel my mother’s arms around me.

My foot tapped, then stopped, then tapped again. 

I raised my hand to touch the soft bruise where Lander hit me; pressing my fingers in hard, feeling the pain flare up. I kept my hand there for some time.

I watched the neat little houses as we passed through a village. I thought of the palace, of its rebuilt walls, of the familiar turns in the corridors, the colours, the scents, the memories that hadn’t changed at all. I thought of my parents’ older faces, of my siblings, now all grown, and of how they might have seen me. Of my mother’s careful hand as she touched my light brown hair. Locke had told me that, since I had woven magic in it for many years, it might take a long time before my natural colour began to grow back. I wondered what Locke would think, one day, of my dark red curls.

Locke liked to thread his fingers through my hair. I bit my lip and stared fixedly out of the window. Locke liked to hold my hair.

My head tilted against the wood of the window frame as if the cool glass could calm me.

Locke sat across from me, one leg crossed over the other, his posture relaxed in a way that irritated me more than I could explain. He was reading—he was reading one of my books, the Neural Conditioning for Arcane Mystery . 

“You know,” he said, not looking up from the page, his voice entirely conversational, “the author’s theory here about layered repetition in memory consolidation is… remarkably simplified. Don’t you think so?”

I didn’t answer.

The carriage hit a rut. I steadied myself against the window.

“Or maybe I’m being too rigorous,” he mused. 

I shrugged, eyes still on the trees flickering by. “A little.”

“Mmm.” A thoughtful hum. “I quite like the argument in chapter three, though. The one about emotional recall enhancing spell accuracy. Did you agree with that?”

Another shrug. 

Fields and farms rattled past us. Sheep grazing on a hillside. A half-collapsed scarecrow in a field of rye. A small but loudly babbling brook. A little stone bridge, tall despite its size.

A thin layer of cloud veiled the sun as it climbed higher in the sky.

“I have never heard of the study mentioned in chapter eight, about the speed of interneurons and their possible connection to third-type rune magic,” Locke remarked. “Have you come across it in any other source?”

“No,” I grumbled, leaning my elbow against the window ledge, staring at the forest we were passing through. Every tree looked the same. There was barely any undergrowth. I saw a deer, but it looked just as bored as I felt.

The clouds had completely covered the sun now, and the forest around us seemed to be growing darker.

“We will stop at the next village,” Locke said.

“Hm,” I replied.

A raven croaked somewhere in the distance. The trees first thickened, then thinned, then thickened again. We passed a small, rickety stone house with smoke curling up from its chimney. A black cat crept along the wall, and I leaned forward to see better as a fox appeared opposite the cat; then the carriage rumbled on, leaving the animals behind. The trees began to thin again as we neared the edge of the forest.

“Chapter twelve is particularly exciting, isn’t it?” Locke asked. “Those exercises about strengthening the synapses are quite—”

“ What are you doing?” I snapped.

Locke looked up at me. “Trying to start a conversation,” he said.

“You might have noticed I don’t feel like talking,” I muttered, turning even further away, almost entirely facing the window.

“I would also rather you didn’t spiral into a pit of negative thoughts,” Locke added.

“I’m not—”

“Will.” His voice was firm but gentle. “This has been an incredibly hard day.”

“Well, I’m handling it just fine,” I bit out, not looking at him. The darkness was taking on the trees outside. “What else do you want? I’m sitting here all calm and composed.”

“You are sitting here and hurting yourself,” Locke said, his voice calm but laced with something harder now. 

I jerked my hand away from the bruise on my chin as if it had burned me. “I wasn’t— I wasn’t doing anything.”

“You were pressing into it on purpose.”

“So what?” I hissed, twisting in my seat to glare at him. “It’s my body. I do what I want.”

Locke’s expression flickered—just for a heartbeat.

He closed the book slowly, setting it aside on the seat next to him.

“I know that…” he began, then trailed off. For a moment, it seemed as if Locke—Locke, of all people!—was searching for words. “I know how hard it must be to wear the armbands, and—”

“I don’t care about the armbands,” I cut in.

“I see,” Locke replied in an annoyingly soft voice. “I was only trying to say that I can imagine how incredibly difficult your situation has been, ever since you became an apprentice. Ever since you have been at the Sanctum, more and more parts of your life have been restricted.”

“It doesn’t bother me,” I shrugged. 

Just shut up.

“Wearing the cuffs is a terrible thing,” Locke went on. “Your magic is part of you, Will, and having that taken away—”

“What would you know?” I snorted.

Locke sighed deeply. “As it happens, you are right. I don’t. Not exactly. But Will, please know this—it won’t last forever.”

“Sometimes I wish it would.”

Locke was quiet for a while. I could feel his gaze on my face, but I didn’t turn towards him.

“The armbands aren’t a punishment, Will,” he said eventually. “You wear them because, right now, this is the safest for everyone. For you as well. But things will get better, the Council will deal with the Dusk, and you will learn to control your power. I’m really sorry I can’t tell you how long you will have to wear them… but it won’t be forever. Alright? I promise you, you will be free of them soon.”

I muttered something. Outside the window, the forest had fallen completely into darkness, and all I could see were dark shapes blurring into even darker shapes as they passed.

“And it’s perfectly fine to be angry,” Locke went on. “Or to be afraid. Or to hate everyone. To feel sad, disappointed, distressed. However you are feeling—that’s completely fine.”

I groaned a bit more. I only realised my fingers had found their way back to the bruise when Locke leaned forward, gently took hold of my hand, and firmly but carefully pulled it away from my face.

“But you can’t do this to yourself,” he said, his voice quiet but absolutely firm. “You deserve better than that.”

He didn’t sound angry or frustrated—just honest and patient.

“It’s okay to hurt,” he added, “but hurting yourself won’t help you heal.”

I said nothing. The silence between us stretched, thick and uncomfortable.

Locke’s thumb brushed softly over the back of my hand. “I’m here,” he said simply. “You don’t have to face it alone.”

I grunted, staring down, frowning, at our hands.

“Would you like me to let you go?” he asked, following my eyes.

My breathing was shallow but slow. I bit my lip. 

Locke waited in silence.

In the end I just let out another angry groan, rolled my eyes, and turned to the window—now the forest gone and the lights of a village nearing us—with an annoyed sigh. “No, fuck you,” I said. 

 

The next day, the hills rolled by again, the mountains growing higher in the distance. I sat with one leg tucked under me, the book open in my lap—not really reading, just skimming the pages now and then. My fingers brushed absently over the words, following the lines of a few runes illustrated on the margins.

I was thinking about magic. About my family. About the past and the future. 

I leaned my head against the window, watching the quiet rhythm of passing fields and scattered sheep. 

Being in my head was… bearable. 

Strange.

Locke was reading too, but this time he wisely didn’t attempt to start another conversation (lucky for him; I was seriously considering proving to him that I could set this entire carriage on fire without magic if he so much as tried).

The road curved, skirting around a hill. A narrow path led up to a small grove of trees at the top, and my gaze followed its winding trail through the evergreen shrubs.

Locke watched me as I looked.

“There was a similar hill on the palace grounds, just behind the estate,” I said. “Roughly the same height, with similar trees at the top. The sides were all grass, and in winter we used to steal trays from the kitchens to slide down the snow. My brother, Ruvan, always insisted that we should only ever slide down the western side, only the western side , because the southern slope was too steep. So, naturally, one time we pushed him down on the southern side.”

Locke kept his expression carefully neutral. “What happened?”

“He hit a bush,” I replied, letting myself grin at the memory. “It took him several minutes to scramble out, then he came after us, waving his tray and shouting. Ilara laughed so hard she rolled all the way down the hill.”

Locke let a small, genuine smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “You must have been a delight as a child.”

I lifted my chin. “I was a delight.”

“I’m sure you were.”

There was a quiet pause, but it didn’t feel awkward this time.

“Ruvan…” I said thoughtfully. “He was always fussing. Always telling everyone how things should be done. Looking back, I suppose he was usually right…” I tried to imitate my brother’s self-important tone. “Vil, don’t put your boots so close to the fire, they’ll catch alight. Vil, perhaps you shouldn’t skip your next riding lesson, Gyulon is already rather displeased with you. Vil, don’t eat that red berry you found in the forest, it’s probably poisonous…” I let out a long, bored sigh. “He was insufferable.”

Locke gave a quiet, knowing smile. “Sounds like a difficult childhood.”

“Doesn’t it?” I exclaimed. “One moment they tell you not to miss your riding lessons, the next they’re complaining when you go riding… ‘Vil, don’t gallop. Vil, that’s dangerous. Vil, don’t get on a horse when you are alone…’ As if I was utterly incapable.”

“Well, to be fair… you were a small child,” Locke pointed out.

I rolled my eyes.

There was a little silence. The carriage rattled on, the wind rushing against the windows. Locke eventually said, almost too casually, “I once crashed a horse into a tree.”

That got my attention. I sat up a little. “You didn’t.”

“I did,” Locke replied gravely, though his mouth twitched at the corners. “I was about sixteen, home for summer from the Academy. I had just learnt to summon speed with a minor enchantment and thought I could handle more than I could.” 

I tilted my head, intrigued now. “How bad was it?”

“I broke my wrist. The horse was fine; it bit me. The tree survived.”

I couldn’t help the snort that escaped. “The horse bit you?”

“On the shoulder.” He flipped a page in his book like this was completely unremarkable. “Quite hard, actually.”

“Did you tell anyone how it happened?”

“I told the healers I fell. I told my father the horse slipped. I told the horse we would never speak of it again.”

I laughed—an actual laugh this time, short but real—and Locke’s glance flicked towards me, quick and soft, before returning to his book.

He hummed as if pleased. 

I leaned back against the window, my book still open on my lap, feeling the quiet settle again. I glanced at the hills. More sheep. Another small farm. 

The carriage was quiet. Not heavy; not comfortable either. Bearable. 

 

On the third day, the sun shone brilliantly as we set off from yet another inn. I was exhausted; I’d started yet another book for Rowland— Counter-Sorcery Protocols: Identification and Neutralisation of Rogue Enchantments —which, to my surprise, turned out to be far more interesting than the previous ones. Locke had long since fallen asleep while I was still reading by the faint glow of the lantern late into the night.

In the morning, I woke to the sound of Locke drawing back the curtains, and the sunlight—probably the brightest it had shone in months—beamed directly into my face.

“No,” I mumbled, rolling over and pulling the blanket over my head. “I can’t get up yet.”

“Ten minutes,” Locke said. “Then you need to start getting dressed.”

“Maybe ten hours,” I muttered.

“Ten minutes,” said Locke, already fully dressed in clean and immaculate clothes as always.

By mid-morning, I’d finished the book; Locke’s suspicious glance told me he had a fairly good idea how late I must have stayed up to manage that.

Around midday, we stopped for lunch. Locke made me drink two large glasses of water, as though that would somehow make me less tired.

After lunch, I dozed off, wrapping my thick scarf into a makeshift pillow between my head and the gently rocking wall of the carriage. When I awoke, the scarf lay in my lap, Locke sat beside me, and my head was resting on his shoulder.

I felt my face blush, but Locke didn’t comment. 

I grabbed another book as we left more and more fields and rolling hills behind.

 

I already heard the voices as the carriage jolted to a halt. 

I frowned, leaning towards the window. Up ahead, a wagon had overturned. Crates were scattered across the road, horses panicked and half-loose from their reins. People were shouting, stumbling over each other. Someone screamed loudly and I could see a wheel pinning someone down. There was blood on the stones. 

Locke was already opening the door, and I scrambled after him, the cold biting my skin painfully after the warmth of the carriage.

Locke’s gaze flicked over the scene—sharp, cold, assessing.

“Clear the road.” He didn’t raise his voice, but it still cut through the panic like a blade, and people quietened and heads snapped to him as he stepped closer. His shoulders were squared, his spine perfectly straight, his jaw set. He looked so composed. The fabric strained slightly over the strength of his forearms as he adjusted his cuffs in a calm, practiced motion.

Something twitched low in my stomach.

“Move those crates,” Locke ordered, quick and flat, already stepping around the wagon. “You—check the horses. Cut them free if you must. Do it now.”

Frantic shuffles around him as Locke strode forward, unbothered by the mud or the cold. His bare hand hovered briefly over the trapped wagon, his fingers moving in quiet, precise incantation. The wooden wheel groaned, lifted slightly with a pulse of force, and Locke braced it with one hand while gesturing briskly to two men nearby.

“Now. Pull him out. Gently. If you fumble, you will worsen the break.”

His instructions were sharp. Clipped. No wasted words, no wasted movement.

The men obeyed as if they’d trained under him their whole lives.

The injured man screamed as they dragged him free. Locke didn’t hesitate—he dropped to a squat, summoned a sliver of clean water to rinse the blood, braced the man’s shoulder with one steady hand, and pressed firm pressure against the wound.

Another crash behind him. More people shouted. Locke didn’t even flinch.

“Secure the crates. The rest of you, clear back—there is no need for all this noise. You—stop panicking and help with the horses.”

A man stammered something in protest, shaking his head, voice high with panic. Locke’s gaze sliced to him like steel.

“ Now .”

The man swallowed hard and obeyed without another word.

I was staring. Mouth slightly open. Staring at his thigh as his trousers tightened over it, at his arms clad in the white shirt as they wove spells over the injured man, at the strong lines of his face, his focused gaze...

Blood was rushing to my face.

Fuck, he was so hot. 

Fuck.

His voice. His hands. The way he beared the wind like the cold wasn’t touching him. The movements as he rolled up his sleeves to his elbows, neat and even, exposing the strong line of his forearms, the casual flex of muscles as he stopped another rolling crate as his other hand kept weaving the healing magic. His hair was ruffled by the sharp breeze, but nothing about him looked disheveled. He was sharp, clean, immovable.

Gods.

I didn’t even realize I was just standing there until his gaze snapped to me, steady and expectant.

“William,” he barked. “Move. You can help too, you know.”

“What?” My stomach did a strange dip. “Oh, yes—yes, sir,” I stammered.

Sir???

Locke was still bent over, but he gave me a quick, unreadable glance.

I turned around and ran to help with the crates, my whole face burning.

The injured man was secured. The crowd was calmed, the road cleared. Locke’s orders had been followed to the letter. No one dared do otherwise.

He was relentless—efficient, methodical, impossible to argue with. Every command was followed, every problem solved. And when it was done he turned without ceremony, his coat snapping sharply behind him as he strode back to our carriage.

By the time we settled back into the carriage, my hands were still trembling slightly. Not from the panic, but from—

Well . 

I sat stiffly across from Locke, pretending to look out the window, pretending to be calm, pretending that my entire body wasn’t buzzing from the memory of his voice cutting through the chaos…

Stop staring. Stop staring. Stop staring.

I failed.

I flicked a glance at him—and found his sharp gaze already on me. I whipped my head toward the window so fast my neck cracked.

“William,” he said quietly.

My stomach dropped.

“Yes, sir?”

Sir.

What the hell is wrong with me?

“You are quiet,” he said, voice as smooth and steady as ever.

I cleared my throat, desperate to seem casual. “Just tired.”

His brow lifted. “Is that so?”

“Yeah.” I avoided his gaze, tracing a seam in the leather seat. “Lots of lifting crates.”

“Mm.” He studied me, the faintest ghost of amusement flickering at the corner of his mouth. “You are flushed.”

“It’s cold outside,” I shot back a little too quickly.

His lips curved—too fucking amused. “Is that the reason?”

“Yes.”

Silence.

Then:

“Eyes on me.”

I turned back, slowly, face burning. His expression was maddeningly calm. Perfectly composed.

His fingers tapped his thigh once.

“Come here.”

Our eyes met for a moment. I knew I was blushing. Locke looked utterly calm and composed.

“Come here,” he repeated, this time a little more gently.

I moved carefully in the cramped carriage, drawing closer to him. He took hold of my waist and guided me to sit on his lap, turning me around so my back rested against his chest. My knees were either side of his legs, and he tapped the inside of my right knee:

“Spread,” he murmured.

I obeyed, letting out some small sound. He leaned closer, and I could feel his breath, warm and ticklish, around my ear.

“Do you want me to tell you what to do, William?” His voice was low, humming, making the sensitive skin on my neck prickle. 

I didn’t respond.

He couldn’t have expected me to answer that.

Then his head dipped lower, and his teeth caught my earlobe. I moaned softly, sinking further into his lap, nodding.

“Good,” he murmured. “Stay still.”

His left hand circled my waist and slid down to my leg, settling there, fingers resting on the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. His thumb traced tiny circles over the soft fabric of my trousers, and—

And that was all. I closed my eyes and savoured the feeling—then tried to shift lower—then tried to press my leg more firmly into his touch—then grumbled and shook my head, buckling my hips—

But Locke did nothing else, just held his hand in place—my skin warmed under his touch—and caressed my leg with infinitely slow, deliberate strokes.

That was all.

I shifted again, trying to press closer, to get more.

“Still,” Locke’s voice was calm but low, carrying a clear warning. “Stay still.”

I bit back a frustrated noise, but my hips bucked once more.

Locke sighed, and his hand rose up—only to crash down a second later with a loud clap, his open palm meeting my inner thigh with a sharp sting.

“No,” he said quietly, but with absolute finality.

I swallowed hard, heat rising to my cheeks.

He continued the slow, careful circles.

It felt like hours had passed. My eyes were closed, my head leant back against his shoulder, and every time I tried to sink deeper into his touch, Locke would just quietly tell me to stay still. If I didn’t, his palm would strike my inner thigh again. Then he continued the long, quiet, slow, nerve-wracking caressing, smoothing away the pain.

“Is this what you plan to do forever?” I muttered, once again trying in vain to steer his hand to more exciting places.

“As long as necessary.” His voice had an irritatingly distracted tone.

I said something like “ ughng ,” then in a quieter, soft voice: “Please.”

Locke sighed deeply and contentedly behind me. His thumb traced a few slow circles on my thigh. Then, “Take off your shoes. And your trousers.”

I froze. “Here?”

Locke chuckled softly behind me. “You don’t have to. Only if you want to.”

Half a minute later, I was sitting on his lap, naked from the waist down.

And Locke did the same as before—slow, tiny circles, this time directly on the soft, slightly flushed, sensitive skin of my inner thigh.

“Stay still,” he said when my hips tried to lift into his touch.

With an impatient grunt, I grabbed his hand and pulled it higher, onto my half-hard cock.

Locke hummed amusedly. His fingers played gently with the soft skin for a moment, tender and light, while I let all my muscles relax, just lying on him, quietly whimpering, my hands still holding his wrist.

Locke chuckled. “Put your hands behind your back.”

“Noo,” I groaned.

“Put your hands behind your back,” he repeated, his voice growing lower. “Now.”

With a reluctant sigh, I slid my hands behind my back, stuffing them into the tight place between our bodies.

Locke slid his hand back onto my thigh. His other hand grabbed my opposite knee, holding my legs spread as I tried to close them now, annoyed and desperate and aroused. 

“Still,” he breathed against my ear. “Stay still, William.” 

He waited, not moving at all until my breath evened out and I stopped struggling. “Good,” he murmured then. “Much better.”

I laced my fingers behind my back, palms pressing awkwardly against his stomach—
Oh.

Ooh. 

I stilled for half a breath, biting down on a grin as heat crept up my neck. Slowly—casually—I shifted my hands a little lower, until they were pressed fully against the front of his trousers.

I waited.

Locke’s thumb kept moving in slow, measured circles, completely unbothered, as if he hadn’t noticed.

So I pressed a little firmer.

Nothing.

I rubbed my palm—just once, slow, deliberate.

His thumb paused.

I let my fingers trace the shape of him through the fabric of his trousers. Rubbed a bit harder.

Locke made a quiet, unreadable humming sound.

For a long moment, he didn’t move—only the carriage rattled softly beneath us, quiet and constant.

Then his hand left my leg. My stomach gave a strange little flip—excited, aroused, a little ominous.

His fingers slowly found the top button of my shirt and, without hurry, began to undo it. My fingers kept moving, absent-mindedly stroking him. The next button—somehow, even slower. His fingertips brushed against my skin, and I drew in a sharp breath.

By the time he had undone all the buttons, my breathing was uneven, my cheeks flushed, and my legs were trembling slightly. Locke’s fingers traced a slow path across my stomach and along my side, his nails leaving a faint, lingering pressure on my skin.

I yelped, a sudden, loud sound, when he found my nipples and pinched hard. 

“Move your hand,” he said, his voice low and freezing. 

I tried to curl up, to move, my hands flying around and grabbing his wrist, trying to stop the sharp pain flaring up through my chest. 

“Fuck,” I gasped, keening. 

His pinch didn’t ease up. 

He twisted.

I exclaimed, my head falling back, almost hitting him on the nose. I tried to yank his hands away, but he was unmovable.

“Put your hands down,” he said, his voice calm and firm.

I obeyed finally, gasping for breath, trying to blink the tears away from my eyes. He released my nipples slowly, brushing the buds with his thumb. I whimpered, wriggling around and sniffling, but keeping my hands down. 

“Keep your hands there,” Locke said. “Next to your legs.”

I nodded. His touch slid lower, over my stomach, over my still hard cock, and settled on my thigh again.

“And if you try that again…” Locke’s fingers tightened, squeezing my skin just enough to make me squirm. “…I will bind your hands and you will get nothing but this.” His thumb resumed its maddening pace on my inner thigh, quiet and steady.

Slowly.

Leisurely.

Letting out a quiet hum whenever I fidgeted too much.

From time to time, his fingers would drift a little higher. Caressing slowly over my hard and hot cock, from the base to the dip, one agonisingly soft stroke, nothing more. 

Then back to the small circle on my thigh.

Then another unhurried stroke.

Small circles.

The slowest crawl of a finger over my cock.

More caressing on my thigh.

One full stroke—fingers wrapping around me, tight and hot.

“Please,” I gasped, hands trembling in fists at my sides. 

“Patience,” he sighed, as though I were asking for something utterly unreasonable. As though he weren’t the one doing this to me. His thumb resumed its steady rhythm on my thigh, calm and infuriating, as if he had all the time in the world. As if this was simply a quiet afternoon.

I bit down hard on my lower lip, my whole body thrumming, coiled so tightly I thought I might snap.

Locke pressed a slow kiss just below my ear. “You are trembling.”

No shit.

“You are doing well,” he murmured, his voice smooth and endlessly steady.

I let out a sound between a whimper and a growl, and I stuffed my hands under my thighs, to stop myself from reaching up.

He shifted behind me, his arm tightening around my waist, holding me firmly against his chest.

“Deep breath,” Locke instructed.

I obeyed, but it stuttered halfway.

“Again.”

In.

Out.

“Good.” His hand moved in a slow, measured sweep over my stomach, grounding me, steadying me—before settling back on my thigh. Always. Always that same, deliberate circle.

I whimpered. “Sir, I—please, please, I can’t—”

“You can.” 

His other hand slid up, catching the side of my throat—not squeezing, not restricting, just there. Firm. Commanding.

“You will wait,” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of my ear, his thumb never stopping. “You will stay still. You will breathe.”

It was unbearable. I wanted more so badly it hurt. I wanted to lean back, to beg, to scream, to do anything to make him move faster—but every inch of him against my back radiated certainty, stability.

Absolutely unshakable.

The quiet rhythm of his thumb. The occasional touches against my cock, too slow, too gentle, too soft. The light exhales near my ear. The press of his hand over my pulse, calm and steady as if I weren’t shaking apart in his lap.

“Good boy,” he whispered.

I clamped my eyes shut and exhaled shakily.

When his hand settled on my cock and made me come—embarrassingly quickly—the sun was already setting outside, over the rolling hills and the small farms and the grazing sheep. 

 

On the fourth day, we pulled into a small town. I frowned as the carriage slowed down—we had already had lunch, and dinner was far away and by then we should have arrived at the Sanctum—but Locke said nothing. His eyes stayed fixed ahead, unreadable as ever.

We stepped down onto smooth cobblestones. The market was just closing, the last stalls packing up, but Locke moved quickly and with purpose. Without a word, he wove through the few lingering vendors, buying food—loaves of crusty bread, dried meats wrapped in paper, fresh root vegetables, a few jars of something sweet and thick. It was enough to last days, maybe longer. I followed him around, watching him, puzzled, and he didn’t answer any of my questions.

Back in the carriage. The wheels continued their quiet rumble over the winding road, the sun dipping low behind distant hills. The food sat heavy in the basket beside me.

I didn’t know these roads, and when travelling to the palace I hadn’t noted enough details to be sure—but as evening approached, I began to suspect more and more that we wouldn’t reach the Sanctum that day.

Maybe we aren’t even heading there at all?

The question gnawed at me as shadows lengthened and we reached a forest. My fingers brushed over the edge of the basket.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“You will see,” said Locke.

“But—”

“You will see, William.”

“You know, it’s really not fair how you keep cutting me off like that,” I muttered, crossing my arms and sliding down in my seat.

“Sorry about that,” Locke replied gently. “It’s a surprise.”

I  frowned even harder, shooting him another grumpy look, but at the same time, a strange warmth spread through my chest.

What the hell is happening?

Then, as the very last rays of the sun slowly disappeared beyond the horizon, the carriage came to a stop.

There was a small cottage, nestled in a clearing, its windows shining amber light, smoke curling from the chimney in lazy spirals.

I blinked. 

Locke opened the door before me. “Come on.”

“What are we doing here?” I asked. 

“Resting,” he said, helping me out of the carriage.

“Are we breaking in?”
Locke gave a low chuckle, grabbing his own bag. “It’s mine.”

I followed him to the building, still frowning.

The air smelled of woodsmoke and something soft, like herbs and worn leather. Inside, the cottage was simple but cozy—a small hearth crackled with firelight, worn rugs covered the floor, shelves lined with books and small wooden figures.

Locke was watching me as I looked around.

“It’s yours?” I echoed.

“Yes,” he said.

“Are people living here?”

“A few servants. They take care of the place when I’m not here. Keep it clean.”

“And you come here often?”

“Not really.” His gaze softened, just slightly. “Sometimes in the summer.”

I crossed my arms, still totally clueless. “And what exactly are we doing here right now?”

Locke’s lips twitched into a half-smile as he tossed his bag onto a velvet sofa. “We are staying here. For a few days.”

I stared at him.

“I have plenty of books here. The surrounding woods are beautiful. There’s a stream behind the house. I thought you might like it.”

The words settled between us, quiet and certain. 

The cottage was warm around us, the fire crackling in the fireplace, the air smelling of cinnamon and paper and pines.

For a few days.

“Really?” I asked. 

Locke’s gaze turned to me, steady and calm. “Really.”
“But—”

“You deserve some rest, Will.” He smiled as I continued to stare at him. “What would you like for dinner? We have a few options to choose from.”

I gaped at him.

It had been such a strange day—I decided that hugging him again wouldn’t really make it any stranger.

Notes:

Thank you so much for all your comments — they truly make my heart all warm and fuzzy ^^

Chapter 50: Cottage

Summary:

Locke and Will spend some time together at the cottage.

Notes:

I had planned for the time spent at the cottage to be just a short paragraph ("we were there, it was nice, blah blah"), but then somehow... that’s not what happened. Please enjoy ^^

 

It was early dawn when I woke up, and the cottage was very quiet.

The fire in the hearth had gone out during the night, and the room was quite cold now—so I burrowed deeper under the thick, heavy blanket, listening to Locke’s breathing and the chirping of the early morning birds outside. The pillow under my head smelled like soap and pine.

Locke was breathing slowly, steadily. His hair was tousled. Carefully, I slipped my arm out from under the blanket and reached up to touch it; soft and thick, the strands slipping through my fingers. Smiling, I pulled my arm back and hugged it to my chest.

My muscles ached in odd places—we had spent days in the carriage, barely moving. When I closed my eyes, I could still hear the slow, steady creak of the wheels, feel the bumps in the road, and the gentle, lulling rhythm of the journey through endless hills and distant mountains.

Locke turned in his sleep.

There was a crease on his cheek from the pillow.

He stretched one arm over me carefully, then pulled me closer to him. I stifled a giggle and let myself sink into the embrace.

 

When I woke up again, Locke was already awake, getting dressed quietly.

I stretched lazily, letting out a long yawn, and watched as Locke buttoned up his shirt in the light of the morning sun.

We ended up in the kitchen.

I hadn’t even known I was hungry until I smelled the butter. It hit me sharp—something about that browned edge, sizzling in the pan, the sound low but getting sharper.

“I will make the eggs,” Locke said.

“Sure,” I said, watching him fumble with the hot handle. “But you’re about to burn the pan.”

He looked at me. “I am not.”

“You have to heat the butter, but not that fast.”

He stepped back, maybe a little too readily, and handed me the spoon. I took it, rolling my eyes.

The skillet was heavy. I tilted it, let the butter run golden around the edges, listened for the right sound—the gentle hiss, not the angry one. The smell filled the kitchen; warm, familiar.

Locke leaned on the counter beside me, arms crossed, watching.

“You are good at this,” he said.

“I had chores in the monastery,” I shrugged, cracking two eggs. The whites sizzled in the hot pan. “I wasn’t bad at them. Although, I wasn’t allowed near the spices after I—uh—accidentally spiced the rice pudding.”

He huffed a laugh. “What happened?”

“Paprika. I thought it was cinnamon.”

He actually laughed. I caught myself smiling and turned quickly back to the pan. My cheeks felt warm, but I told myself it was just the heat of the fire.

Later, Locke had carried the plates to the table by the window while I poured the tea. The table was old and scarred in places, its surface worn dark and smooth.

The forest outside looked quiet and calm, and a rabbit hopped past under the window as I stared out, clutching my mug. Mist threaded between the trees; the ground looked damp, and the moss-covered trunks were still frosted in places.

Breakfast hadn’t turned out impeccably: the corner of the toast was burnt, and the egg yolk was firmer than I’d intended.

“You made a perfect breakfast,” Locke said.

I blinked at him. “Are you suggesting I give up magic and become a cook?”

He smiled into his cup. “I’m saying it’s nice to wake up to a morning like this.”

That made my chest go weirdly tight. I looked down at my plate.

“Well, I can’t do magic anyway,” I muttered. “Maybe I really would be better off as a cook.”

“ William ,” he said, his voice a mix of understanding and disapproval.

Steam rose from the food in slow, gentle spirals. The butter had soaked into the toast just right, and the tea had a faint taste of mint and something floral I couldn’t quite name. I let it rest on my tongue, trying to memorise it.

“You will be a great magician,” Locke said firmly. “You already are.”

I mumbled something in return—but it felt better not to argue.

I took a long sip of tea and watched the tree branches sway in the soft breeze.

The birds were louder now, calling to one another through the trees.

I ate slowly.

 

Locke gave me a tour of the cottage. It was larger than I’d first thought; it had likely grown over time, rooms added like thoughts scribbled in the margins. That happened often with homes lived in by magicians.

The corridor was wide, the rugs soft underfoot, and the paintings on the walls showed the surrounding evergreen woods in bold brushstrokes and vivid colours, as though we were looking out through windows. The sitting room had tall, peaked windows that looked out over the dense forest. A small study was filled with old books and a massive globe, the oceans painted in gleaming gold. There was also a tiny laboratory, cluttered with vials, flasks, and jars of dried plants.

My favourite was the conservatory: it smelled faintly of citrus and damp soil, and the glass panes, held in place by wrought iron, were misted over, casting a dreamlike light over the benches tucked between the plants.

Upstairs were the bedrooms, another little parlour, and the library, where Locke patiently waited for half an hour while I browsed through the titles.

We climbed a ladder up to the top floor—Locke called it the “attic nook”—a low-ceilinged space with a single round window and a scatter of old magical items: glass spheres, dried herbs, a brass telescope pointed towards the stars. Locke let me look around; to touch everything; to try and focus the telescope on a squirrel family in the forest. He smiled as I showed him what I’d found.

Later, I curled up in a deep chair by the fireplace with a book that smelled like dry leaves and candle smoke. A blanket lay forgotten on the armrest until Locke walked past and draped it over me without comment. His hand brushed the top of my head. I didn’t move.

The book was old; its weight heavy in my hands, the paper dry and scratchy under my fingertips. The clock tickled on the mantle. I turned the page lazily, settling down in the warmth and in the calm. 

Locke returned a bit later with a steaming mug of tea. 

“Chamomile,” he said, holding it out.

I accepted it carefully. The mug was hot between my fingers. 

I held it close to my chest and let the steam curl under my chin. 

Sometime in the afternoon, while Locke was in the study writing letters or maybe reading something important, I wandered out into the cold. I hadn’t asked. It didn’t occur to me until I was halfway across the back garden that maybe I should have asked. Or at least told Locke.

I paused at the edge of the path. The stream ran between the trees, fresh and loud and curling around mossy rocks. I hesitated, then stepped off the stones and into the underbrush; to the soft carpet of the fallen pine needles.

The air was crisp, biting, but clean. My breath clouded around my face.

I found a nest tucked between two limbs in a bush not far from the stream. A careful tangle of twigs and dry grass, balanced against the wind. No eggs yet. I crouched near it, hands in my pockets, and didn’t touch. It felt like something sacred.

And then I heard the soft crack of a branch behind me.

I turned slowly.

A deer stood a few paces away, watching me. Her coat was thin, faded from winter. Her ears twitched once, twice. For a second I thought she would bolt—but she didn’t. We stared at each other, both of us very still.

Then I stepped back. Just once. She blinked, turned, and disappeared into the trees.

By the time I returned to the cottage, the sun was low and the sky had turned the darkest blue. There was smoke curling from the chimney. I stepped inside quietly, brushing frost from my sleeves, and closed the door behind me.

Locke was reading at the kitchen table. He looked up, then raised an eyebrow. “Out for long?”

“Just… a little,” I said, trying to sound casual. “The forest’s nice.”

His expression didn’t shift. He nodded once. “Next time, take a scarf.”

I looked down. “I didn’t mean to leave without saying anything.”

“I…” He sighed deeply, putting his book aside. “I would appreciate it if you would tell me. But you are allowed to take a walk.”

I bit my lip. “Sorry.”

He ran his thumb over the book’s edge. “It’s all right, William. Are you up for some dinner? The servants prepared a stew.”

The stew was thick and savoury with lentils and soft potatoes, with the faint smell of bay leaf hanging in the air. We ate in the kitchen again, the warm light of the spheres glistening on the dark panes of the window, the moon rising outside.

The cottage was silent except for the clink of spoons against bowls.

The evening was quiet and slow. I lay in bed reading while Locke tidied the room (though I have no idea what he actually found to put away). Afterwards, he drew me close, and I fell asleep in his arms.

That night, I dreamt of fire, and of the Dusk—following me like an army through burning cities and endless screams.

When I woke, the room was cold; I shivered beneath the covers, slick with icy sweat, my hand trembling as I brushed damp strands of hair from my eyes.

I slipped out of bed and out of the bedroom in complete silence; only the stairs creaked softly as I sneaked down.

It was still dark outside; the sharp air bit painfully into my skin as I stumbled across the garden by the pale light of the moon, touching the dry bark of the trees, the prickly branches of the bare bushes, kneeling on the frozen ground and digging my fingers into the hard, damp soil—

The stream babbled quietly. I was barefoot; the water was icy as it curled around my feet, splashing up to my ankles, soaking the soft legs of my trousers. The numbness came almost immediately; not just in my feet, but spreading up my legs, along my spine, up my neck, until everything felt pleasantly dull and distant.

I stood there, still and quiet, watching the faint colours shift as the sun began to rise, painting the forest in soft hues of pink and yellow.

The world was still. The air barely moved. The last stars faded. Somewhere nearby, a bird began to sing, its voice slow, cautious and sweet. The first rays of the sun appeared over the horizon. 

I closed my eyes, feeling the water curl around my skin, slowly losing sensation. 

Then—

“Will?” Locke’s voice cut through the cold mist, low and sharp.

I startled. Tried to turn—

Pain exploded through my leg. My foot slipped on something slick under the water—and I fell hard, my knee cracking against stone. The freezing stream crashed over me, a full-body shock that left my fingers useless and my chest tight and heaving.

“ What on earth —”

Locke’s voice, sudden and sharp behind me.

I flinched. I tried to sit up, but my limbs didn’t want to move.

The sky spun.

Footsteps around me. Splashing water.

Locke’s voice, low and sharp: “William.”

He was beside me, crouching in the stream, one arm under my shoulders, the other curling behind my knees. I wanted to say something, anything, but my jaw refused to work properly—my teeth chattered violently.

“M—m—morning,” I managed, as he pulled me out of the water, lifting me as easily as if I weighed nothing at all. My soaked shirt clung to his arms. “Beau—beautiful sunrise, isn’t it?”

“Your lips are blue,” Locke said tightly. “Can you feel your legs?”

He lowered me onto the bank, carefully, between the rocks, onto the soft cushion of dry pine needles. I glanced down—blood had bloomed across my knee, a wide red stain soaking through my trousers.

“Not really,” I murmured.

Locke exhaled, sharp and frustrated. His fingers tightened on my thigh—almost painfully—for a moment. Then came the shimmer of his magic, warm and ticklish as it spread over my skin: first the injured knee, then my bare, frozen feet. Heat surged through me, drying my soaked clothes in seconds, steam rising faintly from the fabric.

Without a word, he stripped off his coat and curled it around my shoulders. It was heavy and lined with soft fur, the collar drawn snug beneath my chin. I blinked, too stunned to protest.

He didn’t even try to let me stand—just lifted me again, his arms sure and steady, and carried me inside as I hid my face into his damp shirt.

The next thing I knew, I was lying on the sofa in the sitting room. Locke knelt on the rug before me, peeling off my clothes and wrapping me up in a soft blanket. His hands were firm but careful.

“You are lucky you didn’t freeze your toes off,” he muttered. His fingers rubbed warmth into my feet, easy and methodical, conjuring heat again—slow and careful. It made my feet ache. “How long were you out there?”

I shrugged, the warmth making me slow and dizzy. “Don’t know… didn’t feel that long.”

My hands were still trembling.

Locke disappeared briefly and returned with a steaming mug. Tea—spiced and earthy. The smell alone steadied me.

“I don’t want it,” I said hoarsely.

He didn’t flinch. “Don’t argue.” He helped me sit up, holding the mug until I took it.

I drank slowly, both hands cupped around the heat.

The silence between us stretched, the fire crackling slowly in the hearth; the hollow pit in my stomach growing painfully heavy.

Locke’s gaze was on me, and I kept glaring at the rug.

“I wasn’t trying to…” I started, then trailed off.

He waited.

I hated the silence.

“I wasn’t trying to hurt myself,” I said finally, not looking at him. I fidgeted with the edge of the blanket, a few strands of wool coming loose. 

“Do you understand that you did hurt yourself?” His voice was calm. No edge to it. That made it worse, somehow.

I nodded, staring into my tea. “I’m sorry…” It was harder to breathe now. “We can go back to the Sanctum now. Sorry. You don’t have to–”

“ William ,” Locke said. “Stop.”

I pressed my lips together, staring at the steam rising off the tea in my hands. My fingers were shaking again.

“You are not being punished,” he said. “And we are not leaving.”

“But I—” I started.

“You scared me,” he said, and the way he said it—low and deliberate—made something in my chest crack. “You did something reckless and dangerous, yes. But I am not abandoning you for it. That’s not how this works.”

I stayed silent for a long time. Locke sat still next to me, his hand relaxed in his lap, his breathing slow and steady. He seemed so calm.

“You are so annoying,” I murmured. 

Locke didn’t even react.

“I— I wasn’t thinking,” I added, quieter now. “I just needed everything to stop for a while. To go quiet. I felt…”

I couldn’t finish the sentence.

Locke reached out, taking my hand and squeezing gently.

“I know,” he said. “Nightmare?”

“Yes.”

Another long silence followed, then he exhaled slowly. “It scared me. To wake up and find you gone. To find you—like that. Cold. Bleeding. Barefoot in a freezing stream.”

“Sorry…” I murmured, heat rising to my cheeks.

“I know you are,” he said simply. “But you will have to tell me when it gets that bad, all right?”

I pulled my hand from his to rub at my eyes, turning away, staying silent.

“There are better ways to cope with these feelings,” Locke added. 

“I know,” I murmured, letting my head fall back against the sofa. 

“When you feel like that—shut down, hurting—you come to me. You don’t try to handle it alone. All right? Would you be able to do that?”

I lowered my arm, blinking at him. He caught my hand, holding me gently. “And then what?” My voice sounded sullen, brooding.

Locke was calm, imperturbable. “And then we find a way to fight those feelings.”

I though I’m not doing fucking meditation , but I stayed silent. I would do meditation anyway once back in the Sanctum, it was part of my studies. 

Also, I didn’t really feel like arguing. My feet were starting to feel better, and my fingers weren’t trembling anymore around the mug. I settled more comfortably into the sofa, resting my head on Locke’s shoulder. He slowly lifted one hand, gently stroking through my hair. I closed my eyes, listening to the soft crackle of the fire.

I didn’t leave the sofa for hours. The warmth from the fire and Locke’s coat wrapped around me like a soft hug, and sleep came heavy and deep, pulling me under until the ache in my muscles and the storm in my mind quietened.

It was mid-afternoon when I woke, and the room was softer somehow—light spilling through the curtains in slow golden waves. Locke was sitting by the table, quietly reading some book.

I settled into the armchair by the fire, pulling a book from the stack Locke had left. The pages smelled faintly of dust and wax. It was a collection of poems—slow, rhythmic lines that let my thoughts wander, slipping away from the outside world for a little while. 

After dinner, Locke pulled an old deck of cards from a drawer, flicking through them with the ease of long habit. He held them up. “Ever played Four Falcons?”

I shook my head. “Sounds made up.”

“It’s not.”

I raised a brow, settling across from him at the small wooden table. “I guess you would enjoy teaching me,” I said. 

He explained the rules — a clever little strategy game, fast-paced but deceptively tricky. I smirked. “I’m clearly due for a win today.”

Then I lost. And lost again.

I narrowed my eyes at him, then shrugged as nonchalantly as I could manage. “All right, this is boring. Let’s make it more interesting.”

He tilted his head. “How so?”

“The loser of each round removes a piece of clothing.”

A beat passed. Then Locke gave the smallest, most maddening smile. “That seems like a poor choice for you.”

“I’m famous for my poor choices,” I said with a quick grim.

The look Locke gave me was a bit exasperated, a bit cautionary and also a bit sad; but he dealt.

And I lost. Again.

Off came my coat. Then my shirt. Locke watched me without saying anything, that insufferably calm expression on his face, but I could feel his gaze like heat brushing along my collarbones.

Another round. Another loss.

“This game is rigged,” I scowled.

Locke’s gaze dropped to my bare chest and lingered. “You are the one who set the rules, darling.”

His voice had dropped—lower, rougher. 

I peeled off my socks, making a small show of it.

The silence stretched between us. 

“You seem distracted, master ,” I said cheerfully, deliberately drawing out the title I usually avoided.

His brow lifted, amused. “Distracted?”

I leaned back on one hand, my spine curving slightly, letting my other hand run down my chest, all the way from my neck to my hipbones. “I mean, if you want to concede now, I won’t judge.”

Locke’s gaze slid over me, very slowly. “You are flirting with me to win a card game?”

I shrugged one bare shoulder. “Just exploring alternative tactics.”

I lost the next round too.

The flush on my skin had nothing to do with the warmth of the fire anymore. I pulled off my trousers, deliberately slow, watching his expression shift—curious. Quietly entertained. Pleased. 

I sat back down in nothing but my thin undergarments, trying not to squirm. Locke’s eyes flicked over me lazily, like he had all the time in the world.

“You are enjoying this way too much,” I muttered.

He placed his cards down neatly. “Immensely.”

I swallowed, trying to suppress a shiver. His fingers brushed mine as he dealt the next hand.

“Last chance to back out,” he murmured.

“I’m not scared of you.”

His smile deepened, slow and terribly self-assured. “Maybe you should be.”

I might’ve had a better chance of winning if I could concentrate even a little on the cards in my hand.

I lost again.

Locke watched me with an unreadable expression, leaning back comfortably in his chair, his fingers interlaced loosely on the table in front of him. Very, very slowly, he raised a single eyebrow. “Well?”

I hesitated. I gave a small sigh, trying to sound unaffected. Then I stood up slowly, not taking my eyes off him. I hooked my thumbs into the waist of my smallclothes, and slid them down slowly.

Locke didn’t look away either. His gaze was burning, following the lines of my body. I was naked, and he hadn’t so much as unbuttoned a cuff. He looked perfect. He looked powerful. Ravenous.

My breath was coming just a little too fast. 

“You win,” I said, gulping.

“Oh,” Locke murmured, sliding off his chair and stepping closer, slipping a finger under my chin. “We are not done playing.” His eyes gleamed as he tilted my face up, his touch gentle. His breath grazed my lips. “This was your idea, wasn’t it?”

I swallowed. “Maybe.”

He smiled—lips curling slowly, maddeningly, making my knees weak and my spine tingle. “Did you really think this was a good idea?”

“I thought I’d win,” I muttered.

His thumb brushed over my bottom lip. “You thought wrong.”

The room seemed far too hot. I was still standing there, completely bare, while Locke stood tall and dressed, the soft fabric of his waistcoat buttoned up neatly, sleeves crisp, not a hair out of place. 

His fingers traced down my throat, lingering, then lower, over my sternum, slow enough to make my breath stutter. “Do you want me to stop?”

My mouth opened, but no sound came out.

He leaned back a bit, raising my face again to look me in the eye. “Say it, please.”

“N-no,” I said. My voice cracked.

He leaned back. Tilted my head and pressed a slow kiss to my neck. I whimpered as his hands found my hips, guiding me backward, step by step, until the backs of my knees hit the edge of the sofa.

“Lie down.”

I hesitated—long enough for him to raise a brow, warningly.

I scrambled onto the sofa.

He straddled me easily, knees braced on either side of my thighs. Still— still —fully clothed.

“This doesn’t feel fair,” I whispered.

“It’s not supposed to,” he said, and bent down to kiss me.

It was slow and deep. His mouth coaxed mine open and his weight pressed into me, not heavy, but solid, pinning me down.

I reached for his shirt, clumsy fingers tugging at the buttons. “Take it off,” I whispered against his lips.

He caught my wrists gently, pinning them down above my head. “Patience,” he murmured. “You have lost every round. Let me claim what I’m owed.”

I flushed, breathing hard. I opened my mouth to protest, but he silenced me quickly with another kiss.

It’s not fair.

My back arched. I wriggled under him. I tried to yank my hands free, but he held me in place with strong arms.

When he finally pulled back, I was gasping, dazed, blinking up at him. He shifted, trailing his fingers down the length of my arms, down to my ribs, my hips—his touch maddeningly light. 

“Look at you,” he murmured. “You are beautiful.”

I swallowed hard. “You’re… not even trying to be fair.”

Locke gave me a slow smile, smug and quiet. “No. I’m being generous.”

His fingers felt like fire against my skin. I giggled and tried to roll over when his fingertips grazed over my flank. I sucked in a deep breath, my eyes drifting closed, as his thumbs slid up to my collarbones. 

He was so agonisingly slow. His touch so soft. So gentle. Almost careful.

But he was straddling me, and I could feel that he was hard , too. 

I buckled my hips with a playful smirk. 

He placed a hand on my hip, pushing me down on the sofa. 

His gaze was dark, thoughtful, as his eyes slid over me. 

“I think we should take a bath,” he said.

I went still. “A bath?”

“Mhmm,” he nodded. “It’s getting late. It’s time for bed soon.”

“What?”

He grabbed my wrist, pulling me up with him. “Come on.”

“But—”

A quick and powerful kiss. It left me breathless.

“Just do as I say, William.”

“Yes,” I mumbled, letting him lead me up to the bedroom. 

 

The bathroom was warm. The tub was almost full; steam curled along the ceiling beams, candlelight flickering off the tiles. Locke poured things into the water, colourful liquids and small phials of fine powders. The smell was fresh and herbal.

I was wrapped up in a blanket, completely naked underneath. Locke checked the water one last time, sitting at the edge of the tub. When he was satisfied, he looked up at me—not demanding, just waiting.

I felt my cheeks flush. 

“Feeling shy?” he asked, his eyes glinting in amusement.

“No,” I lied, glaring at him. 

A small chuckle. He motioned toward the water. “Then come.”

I gulped. Let the blanket fall. 

His gaze slid down my body, and I tried not to squirm under the heat of it. I stepped into the water, one leg at a time, and lowered myself into the warmth. 

It felt good.

When I looked back up, he was undressing.

Deliberate, quiet movements. His shirt fell first, then his belt, then the rest. 

I gulped.

This was the first time I had ever seen him naked.

I always knew Locke was beautiful—annoyingly perfect, to be honest—but it was different, actually seeing him, in the dim light of the flickering candles. Tall frame. Broad shoulders. That quiet, contained power. Muscles carved into him, long and lean. Not brute force—precision.

Controlled. Elegant. Effortless.

He stepped into the water without a word, his thigh brushing mine as he sat. His skin looked darker in the water, bronze, shadowed. I was pale and almost translucent by comparison. Felt small beside him.

I didn’t know where to look.

He settled deeper into the tub, his thigh pressing lightly against mine. It was a small touch, probably not even intentional, but I still shivered.

I focused on the ripples of the water. On the curling steam. On the candlelight. 

Locke slid closer, his fingers gliding along my arm under the water.

“You are adorable when you are this bashful,” he murmured.

I let out a soft huff, pulling my thighs closer to my chest. “I’m not bashful.”

He let out a low chuckle. “Sure you are not.” His hands slid from my arms down to my knees, sending goosebumps racing along my thighs.

I raised my hand and splashed water all over his face.

Locke blinked, water dripping from his lashes, running down from his hair, from his cheekbones. For a second, he was unreadable.

Then, without a word, he reached for me.

I yelped softly as he caught my wrist and tugged, pulling me forward until my knees bumped against his legs, my chest brushing his arm. I could feel the heat of him, the absolute steadiness.

“You are playing a dangerous game,” he murmured, voice low near my ear.

My heart thudded. “You were the one who suggested we play.”

He laughed. “A simple card game, William.”

I huffed, trying to mask the flutter in my chest. “You didn’t exactly complain when I kept losing.”

His thumb brushed slow, lazy circles just above my hipbone. “You were losing so… delightfully .”

My cheeks burned. 

For a long moment, we didn’t move. The bathroom was silent. Just our small breaths. Bodies pressed together. Candlelight. The faint sound of water lapping against the tub, against our warm skin.

Then he kissed me.

It was deep, unhurried. All certainty and intention. He kept a hand on the back of my head, the other at the small of my back, keeping me close, keeping me still, keeping me pliant. I clutched his shoulder without thinking.  Locke held me right where he wanted me—calm, in control, maddeningly composed.

When he finally drew back, I was gasping for air, and his chest was rising and falling too. His eyes seemed darker than before.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

Locke blinked at me, frowning.

“For the morning,” I offered, clarifying. 

Locke’s hand cupped my cheek, his thumb brushing softly over my skin. His voice was steady, gentle, unwavering. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“But—”

His gaze held mine, deep and unwavering. “You don’t have to apologise for your feelings.”

I bit my lip. “Well, I’m sorry for making you worry,” I mumbled. “For disappearing like that. For… being fucking stupid. Again.”

A soft sigh. Locke leaned back just enough to meet my eyes properly. His hands stayed firm on my waist.

“Don’t say that,” he said. 

I shrugged, looking away. “It’s true.”

“ William .” His voice was lower now. Soft, but firm. Heavy. It made my stomach flip. “You were reckless, yes. But not stupid. You were overwhelmed. You needed space. I understand that.”

I swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. I’m so stupid.” 

“You can be sorry for scaring me,” he sighed. “But if you call yourself stupid one more time…”

I blinked. “What?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, and his grip on my hips firmed, his fingers slipping lower, digging into my ass. “Then I will have to remind you of the consequences of your choices. Properly.”

Heat washed over my face, and I bit my lip, squirming, averting my eyes.

Locke let out a small chuckle. 

He reached for a washcloth and soaked it, then lifted it to my shoulder. “Let me.” Warm water drippled down on my arm. His touch was slow, deliberate. “Stay quiet for a while,” he said softly. “Think about what you want.”

I opened my mouth, but the look in his eyes silenced me. “It’s important you understand this,” he went on, voice low and steady. “That I am not angry. I am not disappointed.”

I gulped, looking away.

“You are incredibly sweet,” Locke said, brushing the cloth along my arm. “You make me laugh. And you are the cleverest boy I have ever met.”

I rolled my eyes, but he ignored me. His hand slipped down over my chest, thumb brushing my nipple. I took a deep breath, shuddering on the exhale. He brushed over my other nipple too. 

“Let me take care of you,” he whispered, rinsing the cloth again, bringing it gently to my throat, to the back of my neck. “Just for a little while. Stay quiet. Think about what you want.”

He leaned forward and kissed the curve where my shoulder met my neck. I closed my eyes. 

“Think about what you want tonight,” he repeated. “The choice is yours, William.”

The cloth moved over me in slow, steady passes. His other hand rested on my shoulder, guiding me. His touch was calm, steady. 

Calming. Steadying. 

I let my head tip forward as he moved behind me, rinsing the cloth again, pressing it gently along the curve of my spine. I could feel his breath near my ear. Could feel him watching me.

I swallowed hard. “Sir?”

His hands stilled. “Mm?”

I hesitated, fingers curling lightly against my knees. My pulse was so loud I could barely hear my own voice.

He said nothing, just waited.

“I want to please you.”

There was a moment of silence. Like everything—steam, candlelight, breath—paused between us.

I felt a twist in my chest—uncertainty, tension, a sharp little edge of fear and regret. 

Locke placed a small kiss on my shoulder. Slow. Gentle. Stopping my anxious thoughts. 

I glanced back at him—he was watching me. 

His eyes were dark. Deep. Hungry. 

He looked pleased. Delighted .

He looked almost…proud.

Locke’s hand slid slowly up my back, stopping between my shoulder blades. “You already are,” he murmured.

I squirmed a little, shoulders tightening as I looked down. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. Smug. Amused.

Asshole.

His fingers brushed the side of my neck, tilting my chin ever so slightly, so I couldn’t hide the blush creeping up my cheeks. “But really, William. You are sitting here, quietly, just like I asked. Letting me care for you. Trusting me. Do you have any idea how much that pleases me?”

I tried to swallow, but my throat felt too tight. 

Locke leaned in again, his voice low, brushing just beneath my ear. “That’s enough for me, you know,” he murmured. “You, here. Warm. Safe. Obedient.” He kissed just below my jaw. “Mine.”

A small, helpless noise caught in my throat.

“You know…” I wriggled under his gentle touch on my hip. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

He leaned back a little to look at me, eyes sharp and dark. Amused. He tilted his head. “I could make you say it, you know,” he mused.

I could feel my cheeks blushing. “Please no.”

“I could make you,” he repeated slowly. “Make you say exactly what you want. In detail. Begging.”

I whimpered softly. “Please don’t.” His fingers slid up, all over my body, touching everything, touching everywhere. They ended in my hair, gripping the roots tightly. “Please, sir, I just— You know— Please—”

His grip tightened, tilting my head slightly back. He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to my throat. 

“You want to serve me, William?”

I tried to nod.

Locke’s breath was shuddering a bit. It made me shiver so feverishly. 

He brushed his thumb across my mouth. “Good boy.” 

I leaned in, kissing him. He let me, but kept one hand in my hair, the other on my chin. I kissed him, running my hands over his thighs. I kissed him until I couldn’t anymore, just melting into his arms and trying to catch my breath. 

He waited, his hand stroking my back in lazy circles. 

I glanced up at him once my breathing evened out. 

“Rinse off, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Then come with me.”

 

The bed was wide, soft, and warm. 

Locke lay on his back, draping me over his chest. He let me kiss his lips gently. He let me kiss his neck, the hollow at his sternum, his shoulder, the firm plane of his chest and stomach.

One of his hands rested lightly in my hair, not gripping, just gently guiding; just there . My breathing was heavy and loud. My knees trembled as I knelt over his hips.

Locke didn’t rush. He didn’t let me rush. He kept me close to his face, close to his chest. His eyes darkened when I tried to press my hips against his.

“Up,” he said, tapping my hip.

“But...”

“We are not there yet, William.”

I grumbled. Whined, protested, and groaned. I bit his shoulder, but Locke wouldn’t relent.

It felt like hours passed. My whole body was trembling. My skin burning with desire. Locke was rock-hard under me, his breathing quick and shallow. Every small twitch of his body, every slight tremble made me shiver. Made me feel flushed. Wanted. Good . 

Finally— finally —Locke guided me lower over his body. I gulped down air, shuddering as his fingers tightened gently in my hair, steadying me.

He tasted like soap and water and like the evergreen forests around us. 

His breath caught, low and ragged, as I moved carefully, following the quiet rhythm he set.

I closed my eyes, lost in the shared heat that made every second stretch like eternity.

Notes:

I feel like I'm constantly just fishing for compliments, but honestly, writing is pretty much the only thing that makes me happy these days - that, and your comments. You are all wonderful.

I don’t ask for critique (once I even told someone off for giving it - I’m well ashamed of that, sorry), but please do feel free to share what you think: have we suddenly gone too soft? Not enough angst? Too much? Is the pacing too fast? Too slow? Is everything just a big mess and nothing makes any sense? :D (That's quite possible, too.)

Chapter 51: Gavin

Summary:

Will apologises to Gavin.
(That is: Locke makes Will to apologise to Gavin.)
(So everything that happens afterwards is clearly Locke’s fault.)

I considered running away when it was time to head back to the Sanctum. Not because I hated the Sanctum—it was worse, because I missed it. The studying. The library. The familiarity of the common lessons. The other apprentices. Sol. 

Of course, I wouldn’t have actually managed to escape—what with the tracking spell and all—but it would’ve been nice to see the annoyance on Locke’s face if I’d tried.

Instead, I just sat quietly in the carriage. We rattled along unfamiliar roads again. We reached the city, full of colour, noise, and light. The Citadel, vast and majestic and utterly impressive.

And then: the stillness of the Sanctum.

Slowly, cautiously, everyday life began to slip back into its usual rhythm.

Locke said I needed to apologise to Gavin. I said we should drop this nonsense. He said it wasn’t up for debate—I would apologise, and I’d do my best to make up for attacking him, and that's the end of the discussion. I said come on, it’s been ages anyway . He said Gavin was still recovering. That made me feel a bit ashamed, so instead of replying, I stormed out of his office.

 

I arrived at Rowland’s next lesson on time, carrying the enormous stack of books I’d read. Rowland simply nodded for me to sit opposite him, pulled the books towards himself, and asked which four I had finished.

“I read all of them, sir,” I replied, trying not to sound too smug.

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he leaned back, steepling his fingers under his chin, eyeing me like a hawk circling its prey.

“All of them?” His voice held just a trace of disbelief. “Name the main defensive technique detailed in Arcane Shielding .”

I blinked. “The Focused Barrier, sir. It involves concentrating your energy into a shield that adapts to the type of attack.”

Rowland’s lips twitched. He flipped to the next book— Psychomagical Discipline . 

“What’s the first rule of cognitive reinforcement when practicing high-tier magical control?”

I straightened a little. “Interrupt the panic response before it interferes with intent. Discipline first, casting second.” 

Rowland nodded slowly, flipping to the next. 

“What’s the structural weakness of a Type III arenaceous ward?”

I didn’t hesitate. “Vibration accumulation. If too much kinetic energy strikes the perimeter in quick succession, the ward will rupture at the anchor points.”

A brief pause. His expression didn’t change.

“What is the most common cause of spell collapse in layered enchantments?”

“Temporal desynchronisation between caster intention and anchor resonance,” I recited, then added, “It’s mostly a focus issue. Mental drift.”

“Did it ever happen to you?”

I felt my cheeks flush. My fingers twitched on my knees. “I—well, it happens to everyone, sir.”

His voice dropped. “Does it happen to you more often than to others?”

“I’m not allowed to use magic now, sir .”

Rowland didn’t blink. “Answer the question.”

“...Maybe,” I muttered.

Rowland just stared. 

My jaw ached from clenching. I stared at the floor. “Yes, sir” I said, grinding my teeth. “It happens to me more than it should.”

He gave a single, satisfied nod. “Acknowledging your weaknesses is the first step to mastering them.”

I stayed quiet.

“You have talent,” Rowland said, flatly. “But talent is nothing without discipline. Control. Focus.”

I grumbled under my breath, “Locke has already told me that. Like a thousand times. Discipline is one of his favourite words.”

A corner of Rowland’s mouth twitched. It was almost a smirk. “Good.” He was already flipping to the next book. Rituals of Arcane Restoration and Self-Regulation .“Why is lemon balm used in stabilisation rituals, and what happens if you substitute it with valerian root?”

I rolled my eyes. “Lemon balm calms magical surges without dulling focus.” Everyone knew this. “Valerian works too strongly—it sedates intent, not just the nerves. Makes it harder to maintain clarity.”

He closed the book with a sharp snap and opened another. 

“Recite the five foundational tenets of cognitive-arcane alignment.”

My fingers were fiddling with the hem of my shirt. “Clarity of intention, stability of emotional state, harmonic breathwork, meditative pre-casting visualisation, and post-cast dissociation.”

He grunted. “Order matters.”

“Uh, right. Sorry, sir. Clarity, breathwork, stability, visualisation, then dissociation.”

He just turned the page. “Enumerate the three classes of anchoring glyphs used in long-term arcane confinement.”

I blinked, mind racing. “There are primary glyphs, which stabilise the energy field; secondary glyphs, which tie the ward to a specific entity or object; and reactive glyphs, which activate in response to external interference.”

Rowland gave a short nod. “Define reactive glyph latency.”

“The time it takes for a reactive glyph to recognise a threat and activate,” I said. “Too short and you risk false triggers. Too long and the ward fails.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And what’s the standard latency bulwark recommended for wards in civilian environments?”

“Zero-point-six, unless adjusted for ambient arcane noise.”

“Hm.” He tapped his pen once on the desk, then grabbed the next volume. “Describe the fourth step of enchantment unweaving when dealing with a recursive protection spell.”

I froze. My mind raced. I remembered the diagrams—loops within loops—but the sequence blurred together. “I… I’m not sure, sir.”

Rowland didn’t blink. “Try.”

I swallowed. “I think you stabilise the outer structure first. Then… identify the recursive anchor? And then—um—start pulling it apart from the weakest node?”

Silence.

“No,” Rowland said flatly. “That’s how you trigger a collapse.”

I winced.

He leaned forward slightly. “Fourth step is identifying the pattern core. You do that before touching any structural elements. You destabilise without locating the core, and you might end up dead.”

I felt heat rising in my face, and I ducked my head. “Yes, sir.”

“You are going to read that part again.”

“Of course, sir.”

And it went on like that, for long minutes and dozens of questions.

At the end of the lesson, he gave no feedback whatsoever, even though I had answered almost all his questions correctly. He simply handed me another list, filled with new titles. It was much longer than the previous one.

“How many of these should I read for the next week, sir?” I asked, scanning the handwritten lines.

“As many as you can,” Rowland replied.

“Yes, sir,” I muttered.

 

Over the next two days, I took all my exams, and passed every single one—except Locke’s damned artefact legislation course.

“This is completely unfair,” I informed him.

“You couldn’t answer seven questions,” he replied with perfect calm, closing the massive book he’d been using to examine me.

“That’s because they were terrible questions!” I snapped.

Locke raised one eyebrow. “Would you like to reconsider that tone?”

I crossed my arms. “No,” then caught his gaze and swallowed. “Maybe. A little.”

He smoothed down the front of his shirt with infuriating composure. “Seven wrong answers, William. That is not a passing grade. And by no means something I am pleased to see from you.”

“They were obscure! One of them was about a subsection of a clause that was revised last year!”

“As  noted in your assigned reading.” His voice was maddeningly even. “ Revisions to the Magical Artefact Statutes: Annotated Edition , page 642.”

“It’s kind of creepy that you know this by heart,” I grumbled. “Also, that’s the most boring book ever written.”

“Have you even tried to read it?” Locke tilted his head to the side.

“I’ve been…working on it.”

“And when were you planning to finish? After the exam?”

I groaned and flopped back in the chair. “I passed everything else.”

“And I’m proud of you for that,” he said. “But I’m not giving you a pass for half-remembered guesswork and this attitude.”

I muttered something under my breath.

Locke tilted his head. “Care to repeat that?”

“No, sir.”

“Good boy.”

I rolled my eyes and was just about to stand up and leave when Locke waved me back. He pushed the huge book aside to the corner of the desk and leaned back in his chair, taking his time.

“You can try the exam again in three days. Meanwhile, William, what exactly are you going to say to Gavin when you visit him tonight to apologise?”

“Nothing? I’ve already told you that—”

“ William .”

His voice was sharp, no room for argument. “You attacked him. Gavin was unconscious for days. He is only just able to resume his studies tomorrow. This isn’t something you can just shrug off.”

I swallowed. “But I—”

Locke’s eyes narrowed, but his tone softened slightly. “I want you to apologise properly. Not just words—offer some restoration. A gesture to make right what you did. You need to show him, and yourself, that you understand the consequences.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t want anything from me.”

Locke’s jaw tightened. “You will find out. You are going to talk to him. Ask him what he needs. That’s your first step.”

I shook my head and stood up, ready to leave.

Locke’s voice cut through the room—and somewhat through my defiance—cold and unwavering. “Sit back down, William. You are not walking away from this.”

I hesitated. He gave the chair a pointed look. Sighing, I slumped down.

Locke took a deep breath. “You don’t get to ignore what you have done. If you think I will let you off because you are stubborn, you are wrong.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but he raised a hand, silencing me without a word.

“You will apologise. You will listen to what Gavin needs. And you will do it before I decide what consequences come next. Refuse, and you will regret it.”

I glared at him, arms still crossed. “Fine,” I muttered through clenched teeth. “I’ll apologise. Happy now?” I  rolled my eyes and let out a long sigh. “I almost missed sitting here and listening to your lectures. Been a while, hasn’t it?”

Locke’s expression didn’t shift. “You will apologise, and you will do it properly. You will do it because it’s the right thing, not because I’m forcing you.”

“Well, you are kind of—”

“That’s enough, thank you. I don’t care about your excuses. You hurt someone. You make amends. Simple as that.”

“But—”

“You will apologise. End of discussion.” His gaze snapped to the door, hard and final. “You are dismissed.”

 

 

I stood in front of Gavin’s door for minutes, raising my hand to knock, then dropping it again. I kicked the toe of my boot against the floor. I turned around, ready to leave. I sighed deeply. I cursed Locke under my breath.

Finally, I raised my hand, muttered another curse, and knocked softly, hoping maybe Gavin wouldn’t even be here.

Of course, he was. I heard some movement from inside, and then the door opened. Gavin looked at me in surprise.

I swallowed hard.

Gavin looked healthy, but his face was more drawn than I remembered. He held a paintbrush in his hand, and his white shirt was streaked with splashes of red paint.

“Yes?” he spoke after I didn’t.

“Um,” I said. “Gavin.” He gave me a curious, slightly amused look. “You... I, uh... you doing all…right?”

Well, that was smooth, Will. Fucking smooth.

“Fine?” Gavin said, narrowing his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

I winced. “Locke is making me apologise.”

Gavin raised his eyebrows. “To apologise?"

I shifted on my feet, suddenly very aware of how uncomfortable I was standing there in front of him. “Yeah... So, well, you know. I’m sorry for what happened. For attacking you. Really very sorry.”

Gavin placed a nonchalant hand on the doorway. “Is this supposed to make me feel better?” 

I clenched my jaw. “What else am I supposed to say?”

Gavin stared at me for a long moment, then shook his head. “I don’t need your apology.”

I huffed, biting the inside of my cheek. Gavin was about to shut the door.

Locke is going to kill me if I walk away now. 

“I know…” I sighed. “Look, I know I hurt you, all right? It was stupid, and it wasn’t fair. You didn’t deserve it, Gavin. I—I didn’t think. I panicked. I let things get out of control, and you... you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. And I—” I paused, my words catching in my throat. Shit . “I’m sorry.”

Gavin’s face flickered, his smug expression faltering. He didn’t shut the door on my face.

“I’m really sorry,” I repeated. The words burned in my chest.

“Okay,” Gavin said, his voice softer now, the usual edge gone. 

I shuffled my weight awkwardly. “Locke says it would be good if I could somehow make up for what happened,” I muttered. “So, if there’s anything you need my help with... though I don’t really know what that could be, since I can’t even do magic…” I raised my wrists with a scowl, showing him the cuffs. Gavin’s eyes narrowed at the sight. “But if there’s anything I can do, just let me know. Really…” I swallowed hard. “Not just because Locke says so. I know I was an idiot.”

“Well, at least we agree on that,” Gavin said with a nod.

I huffed, but when our eyes met, Gavin didn’t look malicious.

“All right,” he sighed. “I’m working on a dreadful task for Mater Lisdin right now. Want to help?”

I shrugged. Gavin opened the door and stepped aside.

I hesitated for a moment before stepping across the threshold. Gavin’s room was much like mine in size, same basic furniture—a simple bed, a desk that looked a little too neat to be normal, and a bookshelf stacked high with texts. 

He had far more personal items than I did. A wooden carving of some animal, maybe a fox, sat on the edge of the desk. A few coloured inks in neat glass bottles lined a shelf. I could see framed pictures on the walls—sketches of places, though I couldn’t make out the details. 

Gavin shut the door behind me and gestured toward the scattered parchments on the floor. Thousands of huge sigils, drawn in the traditional red paint, sprawled across the room.“This is the sigil collection,” Gavin said. “Well, at least part of it. Exciting, right?”

“Uh... not really?” I replied, unsure.

Gavin gave a dry chuckle, and I couldn’t quite tell if he was joking or genuinely found the whole thing exciting.

“These are catalogued by Master Lisdin,” he said, carefully setting aside a parchment with drying paint. “For his research on the historical changes of sigils. A lot of them are really faded—my job is to repaint them.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Sounds absolutely thrilling.”

Gavin gave me a flat glance, almost like he was daring me to say something else. “Sigils are always adapting, evolving with the needs of the time. Over the centuries, their meanings, uses, and the magic behind them have changed. Master Lisdin’s project is to catalogue all these changes.”

“Thrilling,” I repeated with a bit of a smirk. “Also, looks like a hell of a lot of work.”

“Yeah,” Gavin snapped, his voice a little more clipped. “So, you wanna help or not?”

I winced. “Sorry, sorry.” I sat down cross-legged on the floor between three cans of paint and a tall stack of parchments. “I’m helping.”

“Right,” Gavin nodded. “Grab a brush then. You can use that paint over by your elbow. And I suppose I don’t need to tell you that if you mess this up, Master Lisdin will kill you, right?”

“I guessed,” I mumbled, reaching for a parchment with a tired sigh. “I solemnly swear never to attack you again.”

Gavin shot me an absent-minded glance as he continued his work. “We’ll see.” Then, as though it was just a casual observation, he added, “By the way... I heard you’re a prince now. Is that true?”

His grin made it clear that he knew the answer—and all the embarrassing details that came with it.

“Yeah,” I grumbled, setting the brush in the paint. “You can bow and call me ‘Your Highness, from now on’ if you want.”

“You won’t enjoy it if I actually started doing that,” Gavin replied with a grin.

I kept my mouth shut. I probably really wouldn’t.

Painting was mind-numbingly dull. Not hard or complicated—just meticulous. We hunched in silence over the parchments, painstakingly tracing centuries-old sigils in fresh red paint. Every stroke had to perfectly follow the original lines, right down to the most delicate curl. One wrong flick of the brush and the whole thing would be ‘compromised,’ according to Gavin. I wasn’t sure if that meant just “the sigil won’t work” or if something worse would happen—would it explode? Turn into a frog? Haunt us forever? I decided not to ask. I just kept painting.

I didn’t have magic anyway. I didn’t have to worry about accidentally activating the sigil—couldn’t have, even if I’d wanted to.

Gavin glanced at the cuffs peeking out from beneath my sleeve, as if he knew exactly what I was thinking.

“They say how long you have to wear those?” he asked.

“No,” I shrugged, doing my best to sound completely unfazed.

Gavin made a face, dipping his brush in the paint again. “You know, honestly? I think you deserved it.”

“Thanks,” I muttered.

He pointed his brush at me like a tiny sword. “I was unconscious for days, Will. Days. Then everything hurt for a week, and I threw up every time I tried to cast anything.”

I winced. “Shit. Sorry.”

He shrugged. “I’m better now.” Then grinned. “Still, helps knowing you didn’t get off easy.”

“I’m not wearing these because I attacked you,” I grumbled, not looking up from the sigil. “I’m wearing them so I won’t summon the Dusk and kill everyone or something like that.”

“Good,” said Gavin.

I sighed through clenched teeth.

Thankfully, Gavin let it drop after that, and we painted in silence for a long time.

“What’s it like,” Gavin asked after a long silence, voice quiet and pensive, “coming back from the dead?”

I blinked down at my nearly-finished sigil. “I wasn’t actually dead, Gavin.”

“You know what I mean,” he waved dismissively.

I bit my lip and focused on the sigil with every ounce of concentration I had, just to delay answering. Finally, I shrugged. “Dunno. Wasn’t that bad.”

“Not bad enough to justify attacking one of your fellow apprentices?” Gavin asked, a smirk playing on his lips.

“I’m sorry,” I ground out through clenched teeth. “I already said I’m sorry. I’ll be sorry forever, with the deepest remorse and eternal regret. Is that good enough for you?”

“No,” Gavin said, still smirking. “What did your parents say, then? The palace-arsonist, prodigal prince returns from the dead as an ill-mannered and unpredictable magician?”

“I’m not—”

“Oh come on. What did they say?”

I shrugged, unwilling to get into it with him. “They were happy.”

Gavin looked genuinely surprised. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Really? No dungeons of torture for traitors and fire-starters?”

“What? Why?”

Gavin shrugged. “Dunno. You’re the biggest idiot I’ve ever met, you know that?”

I dropped my brush to the floor.  “Do you actually want my help,” I snapped, “or am I just here so you can insult me?”

“I’m just saying you’re an idiot,” Gavin repeated, slowly sitting up. His face looked more hurt than it had when he was talking about me blasting him across the Refectory with a surge of uncontrolled magic. “You’ve got parents. A family. A whole bunch of siblings and who knows how many other bloody relatives. People who—I assume—loved you, even though I’ve got no clue what anyone sees in you. People who raised you, who looked after you, who apparently still care, even after you burned down the whole palace, ran away, went dark for ten years, then popped back up dragging the Dusk behind you and wrecked everything again. And for the record, I’d like to remind you that I was right about you having something to do with the Dusk, since day one. But the point is—you were such a coward you left the people who cared about you, for ten bloody years? Because you were scared of a bit of fire? Yes, you’re the biggest idiot I’ve ever met.”

I stared at him, mouth open. My fists clenched on my knees. “That’s not exactly—”

“You could’ve written a letter, you know” Gavin went on. “Just one. You had a family, people who cared, and you chucked that away like it meant nothing. What kind of mindless twat—what kind of complete prick—what kind of bloody idiot does that?”

I grabbed the paint bucket and hurled it at his head.

Gavin ducked just in time. The bucket hit the shelf behind him, sending half its contents tumbling to the floor in a pool of crimson red.

For a moment, we both stood completely still, just staring at it.

Books, papers, and two small boxes that looked like gifts—one still bearing a “get well soon” tag—were strewn across the floor. A bottle of wine that somehow hadn’t shattered, tied with a ribbon, rolled through the smear of red paint and came to a gentle stop against Gavin’s foot.

Gavin’s face had gone ghostly pale. His eyes were wide. His hand trembled as he reached forward, rummaged through the mess, and pulled out an envelope from the very bottom, now completely soaked in paint. He stared at it as if someone had died.

And then, just as I was about to launch into a panicked apology, Gavin started to laugh.

I blinked at him, stunned, silent. 

He kept laughing, staring at the letter, at the red paint smearing the paper, dripping down between his fingers. 

What the hell is happening?

I hurriedly gathered the sigils where the paint had already dried into a neat pile, and carefully slid the still-drying ones out of the way before the crimson mess could smear over them.

Gavin was still laughing.

And—crying?

Shit .

“Um… Gavin? Is that—? Shit, was that important?”

He didn’t answer right away. He just looked at it, the ink bleeding out into the red paint. Then, softly—

“It’s from my parents.”

My stomach twisted. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“No, don’t.” He cut me off, shaking his head. His voice had a strange, eerily light tone. “It’s fine. Better than fine, actually.” He laughed. Not bitterly—almost with relief. “You know how long I’ve kept this thing? Seven years? Eight, maybe. I never reread it. Couldn’t. Every time I thought about burning it, I couldn’t do that either. It just… sat there. Reminding me.”

He turned the paint-smeared envelope in his fingers, then tossed it carelessly onto the floor.

“So thank you, actually. For wrecking it.”

I blinked at him. “You’re… welcome?”

He gave me a lopsided grin, picking up the red-streaked bottle. “Come on. We’re drinking.”

I narrowed my eyes at the label. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Wraith’s Wine,” he said. “Mirn thought it would be a funny gift while I was knocked out in the infirmary after your little attack. As long as we don’t drink too much, we’ll be fine.”

“I’m not worried,” I shrugged. “I’ve got no magic. But you…”

“Will.” He shot me a dark look. “You attacked me. Because of you, I spent days unconscious. Because of you, I’m still recovering instead of attending my classes and I spend my time re-painting bloody sigils. Then you show up with some pathetic, half-hearted apology, and you can’t even pretend to mean it. The least—”

“I did mean it!”

“ The least you can do now is get drunk with me, after you soaked in red paint the last bloody thing I had from my parents. Come on.” He started working the cork out of the bottle’s neck.

“I told you, it won’t affect me,” I muttered. “No magic. Worry about yourself.”

“Only way this could feel worse is if I stayed sober,” he said, popping the cork free. 

Gavin raised the bottle high, sitting on the floor of his room in clothes streaked with red paint, next to the pile of his personal belongings now swimming in crimson.

“To my family,” he said. “May they stay far, silent, and out of my life.” He swallowed hard, then tilted his head to the side. “To you,” he added, squinting at me. “To lost princes and terrible apologies.” He closed his eyes for a moment, then looked down at the letter lying beside him, nearly lost in the thick red. “To the letter I hated. And to the idiot who finally destroyed it for me. To the last letter... and to the last time I let it haunt me. Thanks, Will.”

Then he tipped his head back and drank deeply from the bottle before passing it over to me. I took it carefully.

The wine was fresh and sweet and a bit too warm; it tingled on my tongue and burned my throat as I swallowed.

Everything after that became a nice, fuzzy blur.

 

Gavin talked about his family: his parents were apparently among the last members of some magic-hating fundamentalist group, who couldn’t bear the fact that their only son had magical abilities.

“Everyone’s happy when their kid turns out to be a magician,” Gavin sniffled, clutching the wine bottle to his chest. “Right? They are. Everyone. It’s meant to be the greatest honour and joy. And my parents? They didn’t even call it magic. Said it was ‘the filth.’ Like it was something crawling under my skin.” Gavin scratched at his arm, as if he could still feel it. “You know what’s in that letter? That I shouldn’t write, because they’d just burn my letters. I wrote about how amazing the Academy was, how useful the things we learned were, because back then I was still stupid enough to think I could convince them magic was a good thing. What an idiot I was—almost as big as you.”

“No,” I said. “You’re right. I’m the world’s biggest idiot. I could’ve gone home any time… I was just so fucking scared. I’m a coward and an idiot.”

“I don’t know what it’s like to have your family miss you.” Gavin handed me the bottle, though it took me a while to get my eyes and arms coordinated enough to take it.

“Lander punched me,” I said, laughing.

“I’m in love with Princess Ilara,” said Gavin.

I tried to sit up. “If you so much as look at my sister—”

The wine was disappearing fast. The room was spinning. Gavin burned the letter, and almost set the sigils on fire too.

“Councillor Lisdin thinks I’m passionate about sigilcraft,” he said. “I don’t know how I’ll ever tell him I’m really just... not that into it.”

“Locke and his artefacts are so boring,” I said, lying on my back, staring up at the ceiling, drawing red dots on my sleeve with a paint-covered finger. “I failed his exam.”

“Locke’s exam is brutal,” said Gavin.

“But Locke is so hot,” I said.

Gavin choked. Sitting cross-legged, he collapsed onto one elbow and slapped his open palm down on the floor. “No. No. I don’t want the details, Will.”

“But if you only knew—”

“I don’t want to know. Shut your mouth.”

“But—”

“He caned me,” Gavin said. “Caned me. Just because I was late.”

“You were late twice ,” I giggled.

“You are drunk,” said Gavin.

“Am not. Told you—no magic. No Wraith’s Wine can touch me. I’m invincible.”

Gavin climbed onto his bed. I remained sprawled on the floor, talking about the palace—my favourite spots, the endless banquets, the view from the roof. The library.

“And then I just woke up, and everything was on fire,” I said.

“Shit,” said Gavin.

“The worst part was that the building was collapsing around me, and I was completely fine,” I went on, lying face-down in the paint. “I was so fine. I just stood there in the smoke and the flames, and I knew I was the cause, because I was fine.”

“Shit.”

Gavin helped me smear the red paint into my hair. He found a mirror from somewhere, and I cried in front of it, looking nothing like myself, covered head to toe in paint, my reflection blurring before my eyes. 

“I love magic,” I sobbed. “I miss it so much.”

Gavin flopped back onto his bed. “My parents said it made me unnatural,” he muttered. “But it’s the part of me that feels the most real.”

“Magic is part of me,” I went on, pulling on the armbands. “ How can they just take it away?”

“You are magic,” said Gavin. He rolled onto his stomach, hugging a pillow to his face. “Magic are you. Magic is you. Whatever, you know what I mean.”

I gave a short, bitter laugh. “Well, magic kind of ruined my life.”

Gavin snorted. “I used to think it took my family. But fuck that.” He sat up unsteadily, rubbing his eyes. “Fuck my family. They can fuck themselves. Magic may have taken them, but I’m glad it did.”

“It’s like a wound—”

“And it heals the wound—”

“And makes the wound important—”

“And makes healing important.”

We sat in silence for a second. The room was hot, thick with the smell of paint and old wine. My head was buzzing. My limbs felt heavy.

I raked a hand through my hair, smearing paint across my fingers, then down my face. “Like a curse. A glorious one. Magic is a glorious curse.”

Gavin’s eyes widened. He turned toward me slowly, like I’d just declared some ancient secret of the universe. “Imagine that,” he whispered, reverent and breathless. “Like in the Council Hall. Huge letters on the wall… Magic is a glorious curse… ”

“Huge letters in red paint,” I whispered.

“Yes,” Gavin said, voice feverish as he slid down to the floor, reaching for a paintbrush with trembling fingers. “Yes. Exactly .”

“Let’s go,” I said.

Gavin grinned, unsteady and wild-eyed. “As soon as I can stand up.”

Notes:

Uh oh.

Chapter 52: My Deeply Respected Councillor Locke

Summary:

The morning after the Wraith's Wine

Notes:

It ended up being longer than I intended, with some harder feelings here and there.
Hope you enjoy ^^

I woke to pain. First in my head, then in my stomach, then in the way the light knifed across my eyes.

I groaned, rolled over—

I was lying on cold stone floor. 

I tried to sit up, slowly and painfully. My head throbbed—like someone had driven a hammer straight into my skull. I felt light-headed. 

My coat was missing, and I was covered in red paint from head to toe.

My mouth tasted like ash and copper, and I tried to raise a hand to my pounding temple, but the movement was weird and I essentially smacked myself in the face.

My boots were gone, and half of my socks were missing. 

Also, I was in an antechamber to the Council Hall.

And—

Shit —

Bold, messy streaks of paint. Random swear words half-scrawled in brilliant crimson. Blotches of nonsense symbols. Crude drawings of some assorted body parts. A huge inscription in smeared paint and wobbly letters that said MAGIC IS A CURSIOUS GLORY.

…What?

I groaned, my eyes slipping over the words. 

And then there were arcane sigils too, hopefully not real, but probably real—and shit, it was one thing that I didn’t have magic but Gavin did , and if any of those sigils worked…

Fuck . 

My body jolted upright—too fast—and I had to clutch my head, tears in my eyes from the horrible pain, and for a moment I saw discarded brushes and Gavin lying on a nearby bench—then I doubled over and vomited into the corner.

I coughed, wiped at my face with a trembling hand, tried to use magic to clean up, then almost vomited again from the abhorrent pull of my suppressed magic—

An inscrutable humming voice behind me. 

I spun. The world spun around me. Locke was there— Locke was fucking there —standing by the door, leaning his shoulders on the wall, arms crossed over his chest, totally nonchalant, totally impassive.

How long had he been standing there?

He waved a lazy hand, cleaning up my mess.

I staggered over to Gavin and kicked him in the ankle where it hung off the bench.

“Wake up,” I hissed. “Wake up, for fuck’s sake. Magic. Clean the walls. Shit, Gavin—”

“You think if he wakes up quickly and manages a few cleaning spells, I would suddenly forget what I saw?” Locke asked casually.

I froze. “Well…” My throat was dry, my voice hoarse. “Maybe? That— That would be ideal.”

“I don’t think I will ever be able to forget this,” Locke murmured, gesturing toward the wall behind me.

Dreadful, I followed his gaze.

There was a poem painted in intricately drawn crimson letters—

A poem. 

A fucking poem.

 

My deeply respected Councillor Locke

Has ever the finest cock.

A shame he is so awfully uptight

I’d much prefer him deep in my tight

Bottom every night.

 

“Oh gods,” I whispered, staring in horror, trying to shrink into nothingness. “No, no, no, no—”

“Charming, isn’t it?” asked Locke. 

I turned around to leave.

There was simply no way for me to stay there any longer. I will just walk away. I will just—

Locke grabbed my shoulder and turned me back. My head spun, I lost my balance for a moment, and he had to grab me with both hands to steady me. His touch was firm and strong.

I groaned and covered my face with both hands. “Please kill me.”

“No,” Locke said softly. “You don’t get out of this that easily.”

“I—” My voice cracked. “I can explain.”

“Explain why you two decided to desecrate this antechamber?” Locke raised an eyebrow. “Please do.”

I stared at him, my head spinning, my vision slightly blurred at the edges. “It’s not— we didn’t— We didn’t want to vandalise the antechamber, we really didn’t, you have to believe me. We just couldn’t get into the Council Hall—”

The silence was sharp and heavy. 

Gavin made some sound in his sleep, turned over, and fell from the bench to the ground with a loud thud and a small yelp. 

Locke blinked, looking at Gavin then turning back to me slowly. “Let me be sure I understand you.”

I sighed. “No, please don’t.”

“You attempted to break into the Council Hall.”

“Technically—”

“And when you failed, you got drunk enough to scrawl obscene poetry in blood-red ink—”

“It’s paint—”

“—about me, in a sacred wing of the Citadel.”

I rubbed a hand over my face. “Well, it sounds worse when you say it that way.”

“You are not even supposed to leave the Sanctum. What did you even think ?”

“I was apologising to Gavin!”

“Ah, yes.” He glanced at Gavin, who was now trying to sit up and blinking huge eyes at us. “I’m sure Councillor Lisdin will be thrilled to hear about this little incident.”

Gavin’s face turned to white, then to a scarlet almost as deep as the paint on the walls. “Councillor Locke—” he stammered. He cleared his throat and tried to sit up straighter. “Councillor Locke, I’m— I can’t even tell you how sorry I am.”

Locke just nodded. He raised an eyebrow at me. 

“I was just trying to do what you ordered me to do,” I grumbled. “I did apologise to him.”

“Clearly that apology went very well,” replied Locke flatly.  “I’m sure this was exactly the restorative bonding moment I had in mind.”

I groaned. “You should take into account that actually you were the one who instructed me to do this…”

His eyebrow raised even higher. “I should haul you both in front of the entire Council,” he said. “We should leave this up,” he waved a hand around at all the paint, “So everyone could see the good work you have done.”

“Please—” moaned Gavin, who managed to lift himself up onto the bench and was now leaning heavily against the wall. 

“You would definitely get that flogging now,” said Locke with a glance at me.

My stomach did a flip. “You wouldn’t—”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Wouldn’t I?”

Gavin gave another low growl. “Councillor Locke, please. It was my idea.”

Locke’s gaze didn’t leave me. “Why do I doubt that?”

I gulped. “Well, the wine… the wine was his idea…” I trailed off. 

Locke tilted his head. “You know what I’m struggling with?”

“Your— your deep affection for me, that will stop you from bringing us in front of the Council?” I tried hopefully. 

Locke ignored that. “I’m struggling to understand how you two—both adults, both promising apprentices, both bright and intelligent and capable—thought that consuming Wraith’s Wine was a good idea.”

I bit my lip. “I didn’t think it would affect me.”

“And yet,” Locke murmured, “you woke up covered in paint, which you used to coat these walls with male fertility symbols and a poem that suggests I should be—what was the phrase?—‘deep in your tight bottom every night.’”

“I—”

“Your magic is suppressed .” Locke’s voice was still quiet, still flat, but now had a sharp edge. “Not gone.” He dragged his eyes over all the paint. “If one of those sigils worked— if one of them activated— what were you thinking? ”

I stepped back, sinking down on the bench not far from Gavin. “An easy charm could clean it up,” I murmured.

“I will decide how you will make this right.”

“I’ll do anything.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” he murmured. “I have ideas .”

There was a pause. I tried to peek up at him again, hoping for some scrap of mercy.

None came.

Locke raised his hands and made a few quick movements, conjuring papers, quills, and ink. Shoved one piece of paper into my hand, and the others to Gavin (who was as white as a ghost now).

“You will stay here,” Locke said. “Right here. William, you are going to copy that poem of yours down. Every word. Gavin, you copy every rune, every sigil, anything even vaguely resembling a magical symbol. Exactly the way and in the form they are on the wall. Am I clear?”

Gavin was staring at the quill like it would attack him. “Yes, Councillor,” he murmured.

I could feel Locke’s gaze on me. 

“William?” he prompted.

I groaned, burying my face in my hands. “Yes.”

“Good.” Locke shortly nodded. “Then you two are going to clean every inch of this paint. By hand. No magic. No shortcuts.”

“I don’t have magic anyway,” I mumbled, the pain flaring up in my head.

“I suggest you work quickly and pray that no one comes this way,” said Locke. “Although I wouldn’t mind the embarrassment—you deserve to feel every ounce of what you did.”

I let my hands fall down from my face. “Master, please— ”

“Do not beg,” he said. Still calm. Still unyielding. A bit cold. “You forfeited dignity when you painted a limerick about your master’s cock.”

I glanced at the poem. “It’s not a limerick. It has five lines, but the rhymes…”

I fell silent at Locke’s cutting gaze and dropped my head into my hands again.

“Get to work. I believe that you both are expected to attend Councillor Verdance’s lesson later this morning, aren’t you?” His eyes were mostly on Gavin, who nodded in agreement. “Good. I suggest you wash up by then. Get dressed. Sober up.”

I groaned. “But— Please… not today—”

“The lesson is today, William. You will be there on time, right?”

I glared at the floor.

“Right?” Locke repeated.

“Yes,” I grunted out.

“Good. And I want you both in my study after lunch. Be ready to explain why I shouldn’t put you both behind bars.”

There was a pause. Then, almost as an afterthought:

“Where is your left sock?”

I wanted to die. “I don’t know.”

“Find it.”

Then Locke turned and walked out. The door shut behind him with a sound like final judgement.

Gavin looked at me.

I looked at the wall.

We both groaned.

Then Gavin muttered, “I think I preferred when I was still unconscious.”

I slumped against the wall. “I think I preferred when you hated me.”

It took me about a minute (a very long and very awkward minute) to copy the poem off the wall.

The ink blotched. My hands were shaking. My handwriting looked like I’d written it mid-earthquake.

Still, it was done. Five lines. Stupid rhymes. I hated myself.

Gavin was still hunched forward on the bench, chewing the end of his quill. The paper in front of him was surprisingly neat and orderly: meaningless symbols lined up in straight rows, strange half-sigils, and completely random paint smudges, copied with surprising accuracy. His hand was shaking. So were his lips; like he was about to burst into tears.

I wandered the edges of the room in slow, defeated circles, hoping a sponge might materialise from thin air. Or better yet, a portal I could fall through.

“Gavin,” I said, voice dry and cracking, “I think you should use a cleaning charm. Just a tiny one. No one would know.”

Gavin didn’t even look up. “He’d know. He always knows.”

“Right,” I muttered, sinking down against the wall again. “Maybe a spell to just clean me from my existence?”

I thought I could still feel the wine in my body. A strange thickness behind my eyes. A sick, rotten feeling in my stomach. I looked at the walls, breathed in the smell of the dried paint, and wanted to vomit again. 

Then—

Footsteps.

We both froze.

Gavin dropped his quill. I scrambled upright, nearly fell over the bench. My heart was pounding so loudly that the noise drowned out everything else.

The door creaked open.

And in stepped Finnian.

I let out a relieved breath.

He stared at the wall. I followed his eyes, gulping.

“Councillor Locke asked me to bring you water,” he said then. His voice almost sounded casual. “And food. And these.” He held up a basket, full of cloths, soap, a bucket, a jar of something awful-looking and probably useful, and a few rags that had once could have been white.

I managed a weak, “Thanks, Finnian.”

Finnian didn’t respond, just stepped inside, his eyes carefully avoiding the walls, and set the supplies down on the stone floor. His expression was unreadable. 

“Thank you,” I repeated. Finnian offered a faint smile in return, then stepped back toward the door.

“Councillor Locke asked that you drink all the water,” Finnian said, then cast one last, almost frightened glance at the walls before closing the door behind him.

The water made me feel both somewhat better—and somehow worse. My head cleared a little, which only made the disaster we’d caused seem even more real.

Gavin kept copying, grim-faced and focused, while I stared at the crooked lines of my poem scrawled across the wall. One quick spell could wipe it all away...

Sighing, I grabbed a bucket of water, a sponge, a brush, and the strange bottle filled with the greenish solvent, and set to scrubbing the paint off the stone.

“Well,” Gavin muttered after finishing his copying and joining me at the wall, “at least I’m not a prince. That would make things even more embarrassing.”

“Shut up, Gavin,” I grumbled.

 

In the spring semester, Councillor Verdance started common lessons in the Vivarium. Sol had been going on for days about how much he was looking forward to the first session—I think he couldn’t even sleep the day before, he was so eager to finally see the Vivarium from the inside.

I wouldn’t have looked forward to the lesson even if the wine hadn’t left me tired, headachy, and irritable. Each step towards the Vivarium throbbed with pain, and the low murmur of voices in the corridor—every laugh, every word—felt like it was slicing straight through my skull.

I was trying to not look at anyone, but Sol stepped to me as soon as I arrived.

“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly.

“Is it that obvious?” I groaned.

“Kind of,” he shrugged. “Did something happen?”

“The worst decisions in the world,” I muttered, pressing my throbbing temples between my hands for a moment.

“You look like you fought a dragon and lost.”

“I think I fought a dragon, a bottle of wine, and my sense of survival,” I mumbled. “And lost to all three.”

Sol gave a small, cautious snort of laughter, but didn’t press for more details. 

The others were slowly gathering. Gavin stood leaning against the wall, eyes shut. Mirn was buried in his notes. There was a girl, Priya, a third-year apprentice who had recently returned from some long journey with her master. She ventured into a deep conversation with Sol, while I stood a little apart, trying to keep my balance on my feet.

Councillor Verdance’s footsteps were sharp and measured as she arrived. She swept her gaze over us, and I shifted awkwardly, eyes fixed on the floor in front of me.

“Good morning, apprentices,” she said, her voice calm and clear, yet carrying that unmistakable edge of authority. “Welcome to the Vivarium.”

Everyone gasped and marvelled and whooped as Verdance led us through the grand doors. Inside, the air was thick and humid, saturated with the mingled scents of moss, rich soil, blooming flowers, and something faintly metallic—like the tang of magic itself. The high glass ceiling caught the light, scattering it into shards of emerald and gold that danced across the wrought-iron walkways.

My skull felt like it was cracking open under it.

So much had happened since I broke into the Vivarium and released every creature inside—so many new things to regret—that I hardly thought about it anymore. But now, with Verdance standing there and me barely able to stay upright from the wine, the shame still felt solid and sharp. 

Even more so now that this lesson was entirely about keeping the Vivarium safe.

“This semester’s lessons,” Verdance said, leading us past enclosures and flickering wards, “will focus on the delicate balance of magical flora and fauna—and the responsibility that comes with such knowledge.”

My head throbbed. My stomach swayed.

Verdance was giving us a rare glimpse into one of the Sanctum’s most extraordinary places. Sol, on one side of me, was drinking in every word, wide-eyed and practically vibrating with excitement. On my other side, some rare bird—feathers like polished stone, beak like a needle—was soaring up towards the glass ceiling. A creature one might be lucky to encounter once in a lifetime.

Yet all I could think about was how desperately I wanted to get out of there.

 

I ate something for lunch, even though I wasn’t hungry at all.

Locke’s office door was open when I reached the top of the spiral staircase. He was sitting behind his desk, arms crossed, silently watching Gavin, who stood awkwardly in front of him.

I froze on the threshold.

Not ominous at all.

Locke’s eyes flicked up briefly. “William.” His voice was calm and way too casual. “You may join us. Close the door behind you.”

I swallowed hard and obeyed. There were no chairs, so I stayed standing a little behind Gavin—letting him be the perfect picture of remorse, with his hands hidden behind his back and his gaze fixed firmly on the floor.

“Well,” Locke said, steepling his fingers on the desk in front of him. “I trust you are about to phrase your request not to be imprisoned with the proper respect.”

Gavin shifted nervously, voice barely above a whisper. “Councillor Locke, I truly am sorry. I— I can’t express how much I regret everything. I’ve never meant any disrespect, and I promise to make amends however you see fit.”

Locke raised one eyebrow. Gavin continued to stare at the floor in front of him, slightly trembling.

I let out a deep sigh. Pain throbbed impatiently at my temples. “It wouldn’t be very practical to throw us in prison,” I said, though my voice perhaps didn’t sound as confident as I intended. “Everyone’s always saying that my most important duty is to study with unwavering diligence and discipline and so on. I couldn’t very well do that if I were in a cell, could I?”

Locke’s eyes narrowed. “An empty cell is actually quite a decent place for study,” he said slowly. “There’s nothing to distract you. I daresay it might do you some good.”

“But…” I swallowed hard. I had absolutely no idea what to say to that, and Locke’s unblinking stare did nothing to help my sluggish thoughts to gather themselves. “No,” I said at last, for lack of anything better.

Locke tilted his head slightly. “Then explain. Both of you. From the beginning. And choose your words carefully.”

I bit my lip, glancing at Gavin. He was taking deep breaths, straightening, wriggling his hand behind his back. “We— We drank… Wraith’s Wine, Councillor Locke. Last night… we… Will apologised to me. He offered to help with the sigil painting I’d been working on.” Locke’s gaze flicked to me—sharp, unreadable—then slowly turned back to Gavin, who was taking shaky breaths, twisting his fingers together. “Councillor Locke, I really didn’t think it would go this far. I… I was tense last night. The wine was a gift. I know we never should’ve drunk as much as we did. We— We overindulged, sir, and I deeply regret it. I never meant for it to—” He swallowed hard. “It… escalated. Beyond control.”

Locke didn’t blink. “And?”

Gavin hesitated. “And, I… I’m very, very sorry, sir.”

“How did you get into the antechamber? The door should have been locked, and of the two of you, you are the only one currently able to use magic.”

“Um…” Gavin blinked around in confusion. “I—I don’t—sir, I’m terribly sorry, but I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

Locke’s eyes narrowed and then flicked to me. I was watching Gavin from the corner of my eye, but Locke’s glance made me flinch.

“William?”

I bit the inside of my cheek. Gavin looked like he might faint. Finally, I gave a small, careful shrug. “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t remember either.”

Locke studied us both for a moment longer, his eyes narrowed.

“I know I’m responsible,” Gavin said. “I let things spiral. I should’ve known better, sir.”

“Hm,” said Locke. His voice was still calm and even, but it carried a chilling, threatening undertone, and I saw Gavin visibly shrink under the weight of it. “We agree. You should have known better.”

“I’m endlessly sorry, sir,” Gavin murmured, head bowed. “I trust your judgement and accept whatever consequences you see fit.”

Locke regarded him in silence for a moment. Then he gave a small nod. “Very well,” he said simply. 

Then his gaze snapped to me.

I didn’t like it at all.

“You are unusually quiet, William,” he said. His voice sounded calm. Almost kind.

I shifted my weight. My head was pounding, hot and sharp behind my eyes. “Gavin summed it up pretty well,” I muttered.

Locke didn’t move. “I still would like to hear what you think about last night.”

I exhaled through my nose, my hands fiddling with the hem of my shirt. “Well… we drank. I thought, since I can’t use magic, the wine wouldn’t affect me. You’ve already pointed out that this was a stupid thing to think.”

Locke’s expression remained unreadable. “That’s not what I asked.”

I crossed my arms. “Fine. I thought it wouldn’t be such a big deal. That it might be funny.”

A breath’s length of stillness.

“ Funny ,” Locke repeated, voice perfectly flat. Maybe the slightest hint of disbelief on his face. “That’s your defence.”

“No,” I said quickly. Then, “Yes? Not a good one, obviously. I was trying to apologise to Gavin, and it got out of hand.”

My palms were sweating. I tried to wipe them on my trousers—casually, I hoped—but Locke’s eyes snapped to the motion like a hawk spotting weakness. I felt suddenly exposed, like I’d just flinched in front of a predator.

I almost regretted not putting my hands behind my back, the way Gavin had.

“Got out of hand,” Locke echoed, his tone quiet. Thoughtful. Dangerous.

I swallowed hard. “Well. Yes.”

“By that you mean,” he said, his fingers tapping against his desk in a slow, deliberate rhythm, “that you broke into a restricted wing. Scrawled obscenities and unstable sigils across sacred stone. Composed a crude poem about your master’s anatomy and painted it on the walls in red paint.”

I winced. “You make it sound so vulgar.”

Locke’s eyes narrowed. “It was vulgar.”

I rolled my eyes. “It sort of rhymed.”

A silence fell. Cold and absolute.

Locke didn’t even blink.

I could have sworn even the temperature shifted—or it was just the weight of his gaze—the slow, measured way he sat back in his chair—

I gulped.

I kept my arms crossed, but my left hand, buried beneath the other, had twisted itself into the fabric of my shirt in a tense, white-knuckled grip.

Locke laced his fingers, resting them on the desk.

“Let me be very clear.” Calm. Quiet.

I said nothing.

“If you roll your eyes at me again,” he said slowly, “you will spend the next ten hours in the smallest, darkest cell of the Sanctum.” 

I gulped again. 

Locke didn’t look away. Didn’t blink.

“You are going to show some remorse,” he said, leaning a bit forward. “You are already on thin ice, William. You were not permitted to leave the Sanctum. You are not allowed to use magic. You are expected—required—to prove that you can control yourself. That you can be trusted.” He let the silence hang like a blade over my head. 

I bit my lip.

Locke heaved a deep sigh. “And instead, I find you half-naked—”

A flicker of indignation flared in my chest. “Only my sock was missing!”

Locke’s eyes flashed at me. “...Half-naked and vomiting in the corner of a sacred chamber,” he finished. “Covered in red paint, which you used to scrawl unstable sigils and incoherent verses—about me—on consecrated walls.”

I shifted, heat prickling up the back of my neck. “That poem wasn’t incoherent,” I muttered. “You really do have a very nice—”

Locke’s hand came down flat on the desk.

Not loud. Not angry. Just… final.

The sound cracked through the room, through my pounding head.

I swallowed.

Locke drew a deep breath. He looked tired.

Why can’t I ever keep my mouth shut?

Then he exhaled slowly. For a moment, he lowered his head and rubbed at his temples.

When he looked up again, his expression was unreadable. “All right, William,” he said. “Out.”

My stomach dropped several storeys. “What?”

Locke gestured towards the door. “Wait outside while I have a little chat with Gavin.”

“But—”

“ Enough .” His voice was deadly calm.

Something inside me crumbled. Shattered. The pounding in my head turned into a tight, aching pressure behind my eyes. My chest felt raw and I could barely keep my balance; my limbs trembling, my breath ragged. 

I swallowed hard, my throat tight and dry, my eyes burning. 

I bit my lip painfully. 

I’m not gonna fucking cry.

“Wait outside,” Locke repeated, his voice a shade softer now.

I nodded, the movement jerky, sending a jolt of pain up in my head. I started toward the door but stopped, my voice barely above a whisper. “Are you going to cane Gavin?”

Locke’s gaze flicked up. I could see the hint of something in his eyes—annoyance? Surprise? Something worse?—but he said nothing.

I looked away, feeling an odd sting—not for Gavin. So then for what? Locke? The cane ?

I only knew one thing for certain: I absolutely didn’t want Locke to cane Gavin. And as much as I should have felt sympathy, it wasn’t Gavin I felt sorry for. It was just the thought— Locke— His cane— On someone else—

I shook my head and stepped quickly to the door.

Dismissed. Not wanted. Disruptive.

I turned back at the very last moment. “It wasn’t Gavin who broke into the antechamber. It was me. I know… I know how to pick a lock.”

Locke’s expression didn’t change, but I caught the faintest narrowing of his eyes.

Then, without another word, I left the room, the door clicking shut behind me. 

The silence on the small landing at the top of the spiral staircase was deep. Empty. Stale air and old stone and the faintest smell of dust.

The distant smell of paint, still lingering on my body.

I pressed my back to the wall and slid down until I was crouching, arms wrapped around my knees. My head throbbed with every heartbeat. My stomach churned. I pressed my forehead against my knees and breathed through my mouth.

I wished for my magic. For a simple spell to hear what was happening inside Locke’s office… but the door stayed closed and I heard nothing. Not even a murmur.

I clenched my fists in my hair and waited.

In the end, it had only been a few minutes.

The door creaked open and I scrambled upright so fast my vision swam. Gavin slipped out without a word, face pale, eyes wide, the tips of his ears flushed pink. He didn’t look at me. Just brushed past and started down the stairs.

“William.” Locke’s voice. I flinched, still staring after Gavin, then slowly turned towards the door.

I wiped my palms on my trousers and stepped back inside.

Locke’s study looked unchanged. He sat exactly as before, one hand resting on the desk, the other on the arm of the chair. His gaze followed me in, unreadable as ever. 

There was no sign of the cane.

“Sit,” he said, and with a wave of his hand the usual chair slid back to the middle of the room and stopped with a soft thump in front of his desk.

I lowered myself slowly.

The silence stretched. I hung my head, staring at my knees, fidgeting. Took a deep breath, opened my mouth, then closed it. Tried again. 

“I’m…” My voice was hoarse. It almost hurt to talk. “I’m really sorry, sir.”

Locke didn’t respond right away.

He sat quietly, studying me. I kind of wished he would be yelling.

I kept staring at my knees.

“Good,” he said finally. “You should be.” His voice was quiet, even.

I swallowed.

Locke sighed, and I could see him shifting from the corner of my eye. “William,” he said quietly, “I know you are smart. You are talented. You understand right from wrong. That’s why this—” He gestured vaguely, “—was so disappointing.”

My teeth were sinking deep into my lip. I tried to nod. 

Locke leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on the desk. “But being smart and talented means nothing if you don’t learn to…to think before you act.”

I nodded again, unable to speak. 

Locke sighed. “How many times have we already spoken about the importance of discipline?”

I closed my eyes for a moment. I’d have loved to just slide off the chair and let myself melt onto the floor. Maybe cry. Maybe slip through the floorboards and disappear from here.

“Well?” Locke asked.

I shook my head. “I don’t know, sir,” I said quietly. “Many times.”

“Yes. Discipline is the foundation of everything you want to achieve here, William. Without it, your talents won’t carry you anywhere but into trouble.”

I just nodded silently. 

“You and Gavin… you are young. It’s natural to make mistakes. To push boundaries….” He looked at me with a tilted head. “I know you like to push boundaries.”

I felt my cheeks flush. I do not. 

“What was Gavin’s punishment?” I asked, hoping to change the subject.

Locke regarded me thoughtfully for a moment before answering. “In this one exceptional case, you might consider yourself lucky to be wearing the armbands. Among all the nonsense you scrawled across the wall, far too many markings resembled arcane symbols. Nonsensical, messy, ill-considered—but close enough to real sigils that they might actually have worked. If Gavin had accidentally activated even one of them last night, the consequences could have been catastrophically severe.” Locke let the thought sit between us for a moment. Heavy. Oppressive. Then he sighed, adjusting the cuff of his shirt. “That’s why I had him copy down every single symbol from the wall before you scrubbed it clean. Gavin is to write me an essay exploring all the possible interpretations of each symbol, along with a detailed analysis of the disastrous consequences that could have unfolded had you been even slightly less lucky. One hundred feet in length.”

My jaw dropped. “A hundred feet?” I echoed, aghast.

Locke nodded coolly. “Precisely. And I will be also informing Councillor Lisdin. I’m quite sure he will have a word or two to say on the matter.”

I stared at him, wide-eyed. “But a hundred feet of parchment… that’s like a short book!”

“Yes,” Locke replied with perfect calm.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. “And… and what about me…sir?”

Locke looked at me curiously. We both knew this “sir” wasn’t courtesy, or one of those rare moments when it simply felt right to say—or when I was feeling subdued. This time, it just felt… safe. Cautious. Not poking the sleeping dragon anymore, or something like that.

Locke’s eyes ran over me from head to toe—the tense posture, the bouncing knee, the fingers fiddling with the fabric of my trousers. Despite having washed before the lesson in the Vivarium, I suddenly felt as though he could still see the crimson paint all over my body.

“I need to ask you something,” he said at last.

I blinked rapidly. “Um…”

“And I would like you to try to answer honestly.”

His voice was very serious, but also gentle. Almost concerned. I dropped my head and nodded.

“I know that wine—and Wraith’s Wine in particular—can be… tempting when you are already not feeling your best. It numbs the ache. Slows the thoughts. Makes things feel quieter, easier… if only briefly.” His voice dropped slightly. “Is that why you—”

I looked up sharply, cutting him off before he could finish the question. “No, no, no, no!” I shook my head, hands raised. “No. Really. It wasn’t like that. We just…”

Locke watched me gently, but expectantly. I let out a long sigh.

“I was helping Gavin with the painting. We were talking. He said a few things… some of which were true, but also pretty hurtful. I threw a bucket of paint at him.” Locke’s eyebrows lifted, though he didn’t say anything. “But I missed,” I added quickly. “The paint hit a shelf, spilled everywhere and… ruined a few things that were apparently important to Gavin. Then it turned out they weren’t quite so important to him after all. The point is… I’m not saying it didn’t feel good , sir. In the moment, it kind of did. I think I ended up sharing a few things with Gavin under the influence that I normally wouldn’t have said…” I felt myself flush slightly, and quickly looked away. “The point is, I didn’t drink because I was feeling bad. I know that’s not a healthy way of coping. And… and I promised I’d come to you if things ever got really bad again.”

Locke looked at me for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he drew a deep breath, and his features softened—not quite a smile, just a faint, satisfied twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“Good,” he said. “I’m proud of you.”

I gave him a questioning frown. He simply shook his head and stood, his chair sliding neatly back into place behind him as he moved. “Now,” he said, stepping around the desk, “you are going to go take a proper bath.”

I frowned, not moving. “Um. Is that… part of the punishment?”

His brow quirked slightly as he motioned towards the door leading to his rooms. He looked slightly amused. “No,” he said simply. “It’s because you still smell like paint. And like regret. And because you are going to bed.”

My mouth dropped open. “What? But— it’s still early afternoon!”

“I am aware.”

“You can’t just—! And… I mean, what about my punishment?”

He reached for the door and held it open for me. “Oh, don’t worry,” he said mildly. “You will be punished. Come now.”

I rose from the chair, but refused to move, eyeing him warily. “When?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

I squinted. “Are you going to tell me how?”

Locke just looked at me.

I stared back, suspicious. “Are you not going to tell me?”

A pause.

“Come on now. You can take your time with your bath. And you don’t have to sleep straight away—but I do expect you to be in bed and resting.”

“That sounds like punishment enough on its own,” I muttered, reluctantly stepping toward the door.

As I passed him, Locke reached out and ruffled my hair.  I leaned away with a scowl.

“Can I take a book into the bath?”

“No.”

“What about to bed?”

“Absolutely not.” Locke’s voice was calm but unwavering, his eyes steady on me. “You need rest, William. And boundaries. Go now.”

The sun hadn’t even risen yet the next morning when I was already begging Locke to get it over with.

“No,” he said. “You will have breakfast first. Then we will sit down and talk.”

“But the Refectory isn’t even open yet!” I was kneeling on the bed, rocking back and forth. “You’re doing this on purpose!”

Locke sat propped against the pillows, blanket folded around his waist, calmly reading in the soft glow of a light-sphere. He didn’t even look up. “You can get back under the covers,” he said, turning a page. “Or find yourself a quiet activity.”

“I can’t,” I groaned, flopping backwards and kicking at the air. “I can’t bear this. Just tell me what the punishment is going to be.”

“When the time comes.”

I sat up. “You haven’t even decided, have you?” I grabbed the nearest pillow and swatted at his book. “You’re bluffing. You are just wasting my time because you don’t even know what to do.”

Without missing a beat, Locke caught the pillow in one hand, placed his thumb in his book to mark the page, and lowered both to his lap with agonizing calm.

“I said,” he repeated, eyes lifting to meet mine, “ after breakfast .”

I groaned and rolled off the bed, sprawling on the floor. “Then let’s go train. I’ll run laps for you. Fifty! I’ll do the stupid coordination drills with the blindfolds and the slippery tiles. Just do something.”

“I am doing something,” he said evenly. “I’m reading. And you will keep yourself quietly occupied until breakfast. That is what we are doing now.”

I lay there, defeated, face pressed to the cold floorboards. “You just want me to suffer.”

“No,” Locke said without looking up. “I want you to learn.” 

I rolled onto my back and glared up at the ceiling. “And what am I learning now? That you enjoy making me suffer?”

“If that’s your definition of suffering,” he murmured, calmly turning a page, “we are going to have a very interesting morning.” He paused. “And no. You are learning patience.”

I let out a sharp exhale and flopped one arm over my eyes.

“Also, climb back into bed, please,” he added mildly. “The floor is cold. You can contemplate your life choices under the blanket.”

“No.”

“Now, William.”

Muttering unkind things about tyrants and infuriating masters, I climbed back into bed. Locke adjusted the blanket over me. I flopped my head onto the pillow and decided to spend the remainder of the morning glaring at him with the grumpiest expression I could manage—

Locke kept reading.

After what felt like half an hour or an eternity maybe—though it was probably less—he finally glanced down.

And chuckled.

“You are adorable,” he said.

I was sitting alone in the echoing emptiness of the Refectory, attempting for the third time to swallow the same mouthful of water.

I have to eat something.

My stomach was coiled in a tight knot, but I knew Locke wouldn’t be pleased if I didn’t eat. And he’d know. I don’t know how—but he’d know.

I stared out past the window at the rooftops glowing in the faint morning light and forced down a few bites of dry toast.

The spiral staircase leading to Locke’s office felt eight times longer than usual.

“Enter,” Locke said, as I finally knocked, wincing.

The office looked the same as always. The large desk, the tall windows, the fireplace, the dark blue rug. The usual chair he always had me sit in was a little closer to the desk, but apart from that, there was no sign of my imminent doom. No cane. No visible torture devices.

“Sit down,” Locke said, and I obeyed with a hard swallow. He sat behind his desk, his posture relaxed, one hand resting on his knee, the other on the armrest of his chair. “So,” he said slowly, “I assume you know why we are here.”

I didn’t look at him. I lifted my chin, resisted the urge to roll my eyes—it would’ve been pure nerves, not defiance—and stared at everything in the room except him. Then I swallowed hard.

“Yes,” I forced out. “Drinking Wraith’s Wine was incredibly stupid. We shouldn’t have… obviously, we shouldn’t have broken into the antechamber. The painting was—was unbelievably stupid. I… I shouldn’t have left the Sanctum either. It was all just… stupid. Completely stupid. I’m really sorry.”

Locke didn’t speak right away. When I finally glanced up at him, his expression was unreadable.

“It was stupid,” he said quietly. “But more than that—it was reckless. And dangerous.”

I dropped my gaze again, throat tight.

“It could have ended very badly,” he went on. “Wraith’s Wine should be treated with care by anyone—but for you, it can be especially dangerous. Severe inebriation can lead to respiratory depression, even coma.”

I glanced up at him cautiously. “It wasn’t that bad—”

Locke’s expression didn’t exactly invite argument.

“I need you to understand this wasn’t just a harmless prank. It was illegal. Dangerous. The Council, should I bring you before it, could very well decide to bring formal charges.”

I decided that staring at my knees felt significantly safer than looking up at Locke.

“I know,” I said, barely audible.

“You could face a formal tribunal.”

I flinched.

“You won’t, this time,” Locke sighed. “But your punishment will reflect the seriousness of your actions.”

I nodded miserably.

Locke laid a single sheet of paper on the desk between us.

I stared at it. Recognised it instantly. My mouth went dry: it was the sheet of paper I’d copied the poem onto the morning before. The ink had run, there were paint-smudged fingerprints along the edges, and the lines were uneven and messy.

“I want you to read it aloud,” he said.

I tilted my head. “What?”

“Read it,” he repeated.

I gaped at him. He looked back calmly. 

I didn’t move. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

I sat back in the chair, arms folded, as if that could protect me. “You cannot be serious.”

“I am.” He didn’t blink. “Begin, please.”

I stared at the paper again. The familiar scrawl, twitchy and blotched. 

“I—” My voice cracked. “ No .”

Locke didn’t respond. He simply sat there, waiting, unflinching.

“I’m not reading it,” I said. “That’s— I mean, it’s about— It’s about your—”

“Yes,” he said. 

I gaped at him. “You cannot want me to— to—.”

“It is your own work. You made it public. Now you will face it.”

I looked at the paper again. My skin prickled. My heart was pounding.

“Just cane me instead,” I muttered. “Get it over with.”

“Oh, I will,” he said. “But you will read the poem first.” He leaned forward a bit. “Or I will assign you to recite it at next week’s Council meeting.”

“No—!” My voice rose involuntarily. “You wouldn’t—!”

He raised one eyebrow. Slowly. “Would you like to find out?”

I felt heat crawl up my neck. 

I looked at the paper again. Tried to speak. Nothing came.

Locke cleared his throat, giving the paper a pointed, expectant look.

My face felt like it was on fire. “I… My…” I swallowed hard. “My deeply respected Councillor Locke…” 

“Louder, please.”

My hands clenched into fists. “Fuck you.”

“Start over.”

I let out a puff of air, rolling my eyes. “My deeply respected Councillor Locke has ever the…” I faltered. The words sounded wrong in my mouth. “Has ever the… the finest—”

My face twisted. I covered it with both hands. “I can’t.”

“You can.”

I shook my head into my palms. “You’re enjoying this.”

“No,” he said, unmoved. “I am administering a consequence. 

I groaned and slumped forward, forehead hitting the edge of the desk with a dull thud.

“You may continue,” Locke said.

“I can’t.”

“I don’t care.”

I glared at him between my fingers. Huffing, I grabbed the paper, slapped it down on the desk again. “My deeply respected Councillor Locke has ever the finest cock. A shame he is so awfully uptight, I’d much prefer him deep in my tight—” 

I had intended to finish the whole poem in one quick breath, glaring at him angrily the whole time, but I choked on the last line. Locke seemed definitely amused.

I pressed my lips together and stared at the wood grain of the desk. 

“Go on,” said Locke.

I took a breath through my nose. “Bottom,” I spat. “Every night.”

Silence fell. It felt strange to breathe—my chest hollow and also tight and also vibrating. I didn’t dare to look up.

When Locke finally moved, it was only to draw a stack of clean sheets of parchment from the drawer and place it before me, followed by a bottle of ink and a quill.

“Fifty copies,” he said. “Exactly as written. You may begin.”

I stared at him. 

“You are writing lines,” he said, calmly and patiently, as if explaining something complicated. “Copying your poem. Fifty times. Don’t forget to number them.”

I sat totally still, even though I wanted to run. Or to scream. Or to cry. 

“But—”

“And I know you have lovely handwriting, so I  expect every word to be written with utmost care and clarity.”

“ Please —”

“Now, William.”

Groaning, I grabbed the quill. It genuinely hurt to dip it in the ink, the embarrassment hot and burning in my whole body. Gritting my teeth, I started to write. 

 

The quill dragged, sluggish and stiff. My hand ached. My eyes burned. The words had stopped meaning anything—they were just shapes, repeating again and again. Like a curse. Like a curse I’d brought on myself.

It was the most boring thing ever.

I bit my lip, glancing up at Locke from the corner of my eye. He was reading a huge ledger, sometimes comparing it with other documents, sometimes writing numbers and notes at the ends of long lines.

I sighed, dipping the quill in the ink, rolled my eyes and continued writing.

Only a few lines later I felt it—that eerie sensation that I was being watched more closely than usual.

I hunched instinctively over the paper. Too late.

Locke stood. I didn’t look up, but heard the chair scrape softly against the floor. Then his slow, steady steps. My fingers moved to drag the parchment closer to me, partly hiding it under another sheet which was already filled with neat copies of my poem—but Locke’s hand was already there, swift and certain, and the parchment was gone from under my fingers before I could blink. 

“No!” I yelped, twisting around in my seat.

Slowly and calmly, Locke collected all the papers, looking through them unhurriedly. His face gave absolutely nothing away.

“Why is number 11 followed by number 19?” he asked.

I winced. “I…miscounted. It’s… a common mistake.”

Locke raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He turned the paper slowly in his hand, his eyes scanning my work. My stomach plummeted.

His eyebrow ran even higher. With a quiet huff, he placed a sheet back in front of me. I gulped. 

Then, softly: “Read it.”

I blinked. “Sir, I—”

“Read,” he repeated, “what you wrote.”

The silence was heavy as a stone wall. Slowly, I looked down at the top of the page, cheeks burning.

“My… deeply…um, disrespected Councillor Locke,” I began. A pause. I glanced up—Locke’s face didn’t change. I swallowed. “Has ever the finest… socks.”

“Nice.” His voice was dry. Flat.

I squirmed. “It rhymed,” I muttered.

“Continue.”

“I… I can’t.”

“Continue.”

“No, please.”

He waited. I didn’t move. His silence stretched.

With the resignation of a man walking to the gallows, I turned back towards the sheet. “One hums with runes and shimmers gold. The other—The other smells like it’s centuries old.”

Locke gave a soft, disbelieving exhale. He took all the parchment from me, stepped away, turned to the fireplace, and without ceremony, tossed the stack of papers in.

I leapt to my feet. “ What —”

“You may start over now,” he said, brushing dust off his fingers. “Fifty copies.”

“But I was already at forty!”

“You were at twenty-six,” he corrected smoothly. “And you forget about the existence of quite a lot of numbers.”

“But—”

He sat down behind his desk. “ William .”

I squirmed. “What?”

“You will get the cane. Do you need me to spank you now too? Would it be easier to write your lines sitting on a red and burning bottom?”

I felt my whole face going hot. I scrambled for the quill and a fresh sheet of parchment.

“No, sir.”

“I thought so. Get to work.”

I sighed. Biting my tongue, I obeyed. 

 

The ink was drying slowly on the parchment filled with the short lines of the poem. I stared down at it, hand cramping, ink smudged at the edge of my fingers. Fifty identical verses.

If I ever see another bottle of Wraith's Wine, I’ll throw it out of the nearest window.

“I’m done,” I muttered.

Across the desk, Locke’s pen was still. I heard the soft shuffle of paper as he closed his ledger. He held out his hand in silence, and I gathered the sheets, handing them over wordlessly.

He glanced over the sheets—the neat columns, the steady lettering, the little numbers at the edge of each transcript—then nodded once, coolly.

“Good,” he nodded. “Go to the corner.”

I blinked at him. “What?”

He didn’t repeat himself.

I tried to swallow, but my throat was painfully tight. 

I didn’t move.

“I wrote the lines,” I muttered. Then with a bit more force: “I wrote the lines.” A soft plea in my voice: “You said— the cane.”

“Yes,” he nodded. “After your cornertime.”

“But—”

“Go, William.”

I glanced back at the empty corner, between a bookshelf and a window. The wall looked flat and ordinary and somehow malevolent. My stomach flipped. My legs stayed frozen. “No.” The word escaped sharper than I intended. “No. That’s not—I’m not—” My voice caught. “You said the cane. Just do that. Please. Do that instead.”

Locke’s expression didn’t change. “You are stalling.”

“I’m not stalling—”

He tilted his head slightly. “Then stand up.”

I didn’t. Instead, I crossed my arms tightly and raised my chin. My knee was bouncing so hard it was almost painful. The silence stretched. It made the corner feel closer somehow—looming. Inescapable.

“Please,” I said. “The caning. Make it double. Triple. I’ll count them myself. Just not the corner.”

Locke’s tone didn’t rise. “You are not negotiating. Get up. Now.”

I stayed seated, my fingers twisting into the fabric of my shirt as I held my arms tightly crossed. “I’m… I’m an adult .”

“Then act like one,” Locke said icily. “Cease this tantrum and do as you are told.”

I flinched. My fists clenched, arms still crossed. My mouth opened, but nothing came out at first—then finally: “I’m a prince.”

There was a pause. Locke’s eyes narrowed a fraction.

“Then by all means,” he said softly, “conduct yourself with the dignity of one.”

I felt the heat crawling up my chest, my neck, my face. Like solid shame. With claws. 

The chair felt suddenly unbearable; but the other option—standing up and going to the corner—was significantly worse. I leaned forward, burying my face in my hands, squeezing my eyes shut. 

I couldn’t move.

The silence pressed in.

“I can’t,” I said hoarsely. “You know I can’t.”

Locke didn’t move.

“You know I can’t,” I repeated, barely above a whisper.

It wasn’t a request, not quite, but he understood.

Still silence. And then, finally, Locke stood. His chair scraped softly against the floor as he pushed it back. He came around the desk with the same controlled, unhurried steps he always had.

I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t.

He stopped beside me, and after a long pause, his hand closed firmly—but not harshly—around my upper arm.

He didn’t speak.

I stood, slowly. My legs moved like they weren’t mine.

Locke guided me forward—not dragging, not forcing, but holding me just firmly enough that there was no option but to move. I kept my eyes fixed ahead. My face burned. My breath came in shallow gasps.

When we reached the corner, he turned me to face the wall, then let go. 

“Hands at your sides,” he said quietly. “Heels together.”

I obeyed. My chest was tight. My face was on fire.

“You will stand still.”

I didn’t answer.

“You will remain silent.”

I nodded, once.

He reached up and wiped a single tear from under my eye. I took a shaky breath.

“If you cannot manage that,” Locke said, tone still calm, “you will stand with your forehead against the wall. Arms outstretched. Palms flat. That position becomes painful very quickly.”

I bit down on my lip.

“Do you understand?”

“…Yes, sir.”

He gave a quiet nod. “Good. One hour.”

I twirled around before I could stop myself. “What?”

Locke’s eyes narrowed the slightest fraction. “Turn back around.”

“One hour ?” My voice cracked. “That’s—No, please. I’ll die. I’ll die . That’s—”

“I warned you.” His voice was quiet. Even. Final.

I froze.

Then he stepped forward—unhurried, precise—and placed one hand between my shoulder blades, guiding me back into position, nose to the wall. My breath hitched.

“Arms out,” he said, “palms on the wall. You may hold that for fifteen minutes.”

My stomach dropped through the floor. I obeyed slowly, arms rising like dead weight. 

“That,” Locke said, voice low, “was for turning around. If you do it again, I will double your time.”

One hour. One hour . My soul left my body and curled up somewhere under the carpet.

The quiet was crushing. I heard his steps moving away. His chair. Papers rusting softly. 

The wall was smooth and pale and pitiless. My fingers spread flat against it, arms stretched out, shoulders pulled slightly back—far enough that they began to burn before even a full minute passed. 

At first, I tried to distract myself. I closed my eyes, listened to the faint sounds of the room. The wind touching the windowpanes. Locke’s quill scratching on the paper. The soft turning of a page.

I breathed through my teeth. In. Out. Counted the seconds. Made it to forty-seven before I lost track.

The ache turned unfairly quickly to something more insistent—a current of sharp pain dragging itself through my arms, down between my shoulder blades. My legs were locked straight, heels together. My back was trying to arch just to relieve the tension in my shoulders.

My cheeks were still flushed. My jaw tight. There was a pressing, pointed tightness behind my eyes.

I wanted to move so badly it made my teeth hurt.

Locke hadn’t said a word. I didn’t dare to look behind me, but I knew he was still at his desk, buried in that ledger of his. Turning pages. Writing. Maybe sipping tea, or reading one of those awful dry artefact legislation books he loved so much. Maybe not watching me at all.

That was worse.

I had no idea how much time had passed. The silence surrounded me, heavy and thick, pressing in. The burn in my shoulders was sharp enough to make my hands tremble. I locked my fingers wide against the wall, tried to push the ache elsewhere. My throat was tight. My eyes stung.

I blinked hard. One tear escaped and rolled down the side of my nose. I sniffed with quiet fury.

I’m not going to cry. Not over this. Not like this.

My arms were starting to shake. My back ached. My fingers twitched against the wall. And still—nothing from him.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to whirl around and throw the nearest book at his head. Or rather the nearest chair. I wanted to say anything just to break the silence. I opened my mouth once—then closed it, pressing my lips shut. I wanted my magic more than anything.

More minutes passed. Probably. Hopefully .

Locke was silent.

I was biting the inside of my cheek to stay quiet; my breathing quick and shallow.

Please. Gods, just say something. Just let me move.

Not even a word from Locke. No mercy. Just his chair creaking once. A slow drag of his pen. The heavy silence swallowing me. 

I was trembling from head to toe, sweat starting to bead at the back of my neck, when I finally— finally! —heard his chair scrape back again. Slow steps across the room.

I shut my eyes, chest rising fast, lips pressed together so tight they hurt.

Locke stopped just behind me. “Lower your arms,” he said quietly.

I let them fall like stones, shoulders sagging, letting out a shuddering breath. My arms felt boneless. My eyes burned. I didn’t dare look at him.

“That was the consequence for disobedience,” he said quietly. “It won’t be repeated. Stand quietly now, and it will end at the hour mark.”

He stepped away, and I was alone again.

With the wall.

With the silence.

With the painful burning of my throat and with the fierce sting of tears behind my eyes.

My muscles twitched faintly. I flexed my fingers once, slow and careful, then stilled again. The sharp pain in my shoulders settled into a dull, persistent throb.

Locke sat down again— the quiet rhythm of his pen on paper. The scratch of writing. The occasional shift of parchment.

It might as well have been a mile away.

I stared at the blank wall. I could see the darker shadows of the bookshelves to my left. The brighter colours of the light coming in through the window to my right. And that was all. A tiny patch of wall.

The silence stretched and I hated how aware I was of my own breathing. 

I hated how alone I felt.

I’m a prince.

The thought flared, defiant and hot. I’m a prince. I should not be standing here like a child, nose to the wall, red-faced and trembling. I should not be silent and aching and—

And so full of shame.

I really, really wanted to strangle and silence the tiny voice in my head that kept whispering— you deserve this . 

I didn’t want to cry.

Fuck.

Fuck the awful, echoing stillness.

The silence.

The walls of the corner.

…There was just no fighting this.

Just the quiet, humiliating obedience.

I shifted slightly. Locke said he was disappointed.

Disappointed.

The word echoed in my mind, sharp and painful and annoyingly humbling.

I didn’t want to care. I closed my eyes, teeth sinking into my lip painfully.

I had no idea how much time might have passed.

My legs ached. First the knees, then my ankles. Then something deeper in the bones.

The wall blurred and refocused, blurred again. I blinked hard. My eyes were wet. I wasn’t crying. Not really. Just…

…I don’t know.

My eyes burnt. My fingers tingled. My chest felt tight. I shifted once—barely, subtly—and froze immediately. 

Silence. 

I wasn’t angry anymore.

Or proud. Or clever. Or even particularly aware of what I was.

Time dragged in slow, suffocating waves.

I closed my eyes and floated, quiet and distant and numb.

I only heard Locke’s footsteps when he was already right behind me.

“Time’s up,” Locke said softly.

I didn’t move.

A pause. Then: “William.” I flinched. A hand came to rest against the back of my shoulder, warm and steady and grounding. “You may turn around now.”

He guided me out of the corner. My knees felt wobbly and the room tilted, just a little. Locke steadied me with hands on my shoulders.

“Come,” he said, and guided me to the chair.

My legs kind of gave out, and I rather fell than sat on the chair. My throat was dry. My whole body hurt from the stillness. From the silence. 

Locke picked up a glass of water from the desk. I looked away.

“Drink,” he said.

“I’m fine.”

“Drink.”

I obeyed. The glass was cool against my fingers. The water smooth and tender against my throat.

I set the glass down. The soft clink against the wood felt louder than it should have. My fingers lingered on the rim for a second—and that was when I saw the cane, lying on the edge of the desk, quiet, still, utterly unvarnished.

My throat tightened.

I didn’t look at Locke, but I knew he had seen me seeing the cane.

I sat back against the chair, spine stiff, swallowing hard. I tried to look away, but my eyes kept pulling back to the cane. Like if I stared hard enough, it might just… disappear. 

But Locke didn’t reach for it. He didn’t move at all. He was leaning against the side of the desk, his arms crossed, looking down at me. 

“I know that wasn’t easy for you,” he said finally, glancing towards the corner. 

I averted my eyes.

“You were beautifully still,” he added. “And quiet. I’m proud of you.”

I swallowed. My voice came out thin, barely there. “Proud enough that we could… maybe skip the caning?”

Locke raised an eyebrow. His eyes flicked to the cane, then back to me. “No,” he said.

I closed my eyes briefly, sighing. 

But Locke was still not reaching for the cane. He stood still, his hip perched on the edge of the desk, his arms crossed, and he kept just looking at me.

I shifted restlessly in the chair, the quiet slowly—inevitably—starting to crawl under my skin.

My foot tapped against the floor. I stopped it. My fingers curled in the fabric of my trousers. My back still hurt from the corner. My head felt too light, my body too heavy.

I cleared my throat. “Can we then… get it over with?”

A brief moment passed while Locke continued to study my face.

“Yes,” he said at last, pushing away from the desk and finally reaching for the cane. “Pants down and bend over the desk.”

I gulped, but nodded and stood up, hands clumsy at my waistband. I squeezed my eyes shut as I bared myself, leaning quickly over the desk. My thighs were already tense, anticipating the first stroke.

Behind me, Locke’s voice came low and steady: “Why are you being punished, William?”

I groaned into the smooth, cold wood of the desk. “For the antechamber,” I said, voice thin. “For—breaking in. For the paint.”

There was a pause. Then the cane struck.

Crack.

I let out a sharp breath, jaw clenched. The sting bloomed fast and deep.

“Be specific,” Locke said, still perfectly calm.

I shifted slightly, gritting my teeth. “We drank Wraith’ Wine,” I murmured. “Painted… things on the walls. While drunk. Unstable arcane symbols.”

“And?”

I bit the inside of my cheek. “And… vulgarities.”

Crack .

I gasped through my teeth, blinking hard.

“ And ?” Locke asked again, like he had all the time in the world.

“And a poem,” I said hoarsely.

“A poem,” Locke echoed. “About what?”

I hesitated. My ears felt hot. “About you.”

The next stroke came hard and low. My breath hitched.

“Yes,” said Locke coldly.

A tiny spark of defiance. “You did like the poem, sir.”

“I did,” he said smoothly, and the cane hissed through the air again. I yelped, my whole body twitching, my right leg kicking up. 

“But it was reckless. Irresponsible.” Locke went on, his voice quiet but cutting. “Dangerous. You could have damaged the warding glyphs embedded in that room. You could have disrupted protections that keep this Council safe.”

“I know,” I whispered.

“You could have triggered something you didn’t understand.”

Crack .

I let out a small, painful sound, my fingers curling around the edge of the desk.

“You are my apprentice,” said Locke. 

“Yes, sir,” I choked. “I know.”

Crack .

“I expect much better from you.”

I swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.” My voice was barely audible now.

There was a pause—long enough to make my skin crawl.

Then Locke stepped forward. His hand rested flat on the small of my back—steadying, anchoring me. “Six more,” he said quietly.

I nodded, dragging one shaking hand across my face.

 

“Face down,” Locke instructed as he helped me to the bed, voice calm but firm. I obeyed without hesitation, pressing my cheek into the pillow.

The room was quiet except for my uneven breaths and the faint rustling of clothes as Locke settled beside me.

 “Stay still,” he said softly, hooking an arm around my waist and pulling my trousers down. I hissed as the fabric scraped over my skin.

The salve smelled strongly of herbs—clean, sharp, and calming all at once. Coldness spread as Locke pressed his fingers to my bruised flesh, massaging the salve in with slow, deliberate circles.

I kicked at the bed, trying to twist away, but his hold tightened just enough to keep me still.

“Not yet,” he murmured, voice low and firm. “Stay still.”

His hand was steady as he worked the salve in, this thumb tracing the edge of one stripe, then another. The sharp, pointed pain was slowly replaced by a deeper, duller ache. 

My face was hot against the pillow. 

I jerked as his fingers dug a bit deeper into a welt. “Fuck—”

“I’m thinking about your poem,” Locke said casually.

I went very, very, very still. 

His fingers didn’t stop moving—slow and precise, following the shape of a welt, then smoothing out across my skin in a long, measured stroke.

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly, burying my head deeper into the pillow, holding onto the edge of the blanket as Locke nudged my legs apart, his fingers slipping between my cheeks.

His thumb ghosted over my hole, while his other fingers dug deep into the bruises. 

“Sorry,” I whimpered. “I promise— I promise from this point forward, all my poems about you will be nothing but respectful and well-mannered—”

“Respectful and well-mannered?” Locke echoed, amusement threading through his voice. “That would be a change.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. My face was burning. His thumb never pressed, never pushed—just circled, light as breath, maddeningly careful. There .

“Tell me more about that next poem of yours,” he said lightly. 

“Uh…” I tried to breathe evenly as his hand—warm and steady—rested with pointed weight just over the worst of the bruises. “I— Ah, shit .” His thumb pressed down a bit, and my hips buckled, trembling. 

“I’m listening,” said Locke.

My breathing was heavy, loud. “It will… extol… your many virtues,” I gritted out, kicking as he switched his hands, brushing his index finger over the sensitive skin of my hole now. 

“Mm,” Locke said. “That’s very vague.”

“Please—”

“Hush. Keep still.”

I struggled, trembling, clutching the edge of the blanket for dear life.

“Tell me more.”

I dug my face into the pillow with a whine. His hand was gripping my hip, keeping me in place, keeping my legs spread.

“It’ll call you… wise. Brilliant. A shining pillar of reason and… discipline.”

He gave a thoughtful hum. “What else?”

“Cruel,” I mumbled.

“What was that?”

The tip of his finger slipped inside. I went still. Locke waited as I took deep breaths, exhaling sharply in the pillow.

Then he moved his finger a bit, and it was dry and weird and uncomfortable and with a quick jolt, I wrenched myself away. 

A disgruntled hum. Locke’s hand landed on my bottom with a sharp slap. I cried out, moving a hand back to cover myself.

“Cruel, you say?” he asked casually, as he grabbed my wrist and pressed my hand to my lower back.

“Kind,” I said quickly, face burning. “I meant kind. Patient. Sophisticated. Unyielding. Wise…beyond mortal years.”

A soft chuckle. “I see.”

“Gonna be a really nice poem,” I muttered. “Things like where he stands, order follows —”

Locke’s fingers slid back between my cheeks. I grunted. He used his knees to spread my legs further. 

He brushed over my hole lightly.

“Tell me more,” he ordered.

My thoughts felt mushy. “ In his… presence, even… even silence… feels obedient .”

“Mhm.” He pushed at my hole again, and I tried not to squirm. “What else?”

“Um, like…like… Every word he speaks is like law…Unfortunately so…”

“Raise your hips a bit,” he muttered, and his finger slipped inside as I did. He held me in position by my wrist, still pinned to the small of my back. I buried my face in the pillow, letting out a breathless whimper as he moved his finger around a bit.

“Hurts?” he asked. 

I shook my head, unable to speak.

Locke leaned over me, closer, so he could whisper in my ear. “Do you know, William, that my cock is considerably bigger than my finger, right?”

I moaned, nodding. 

“Answer me.”

“Um—Yes… Yes, sir.”

“Good,” said Locke. He sounded very pleased—then leaned back, pulled his finger out and released my wrist, and landed one final smack on my bruised bottom.

“Rest.”

I twisted around. “ What? ”

“Rest,” Locke repeated, already standing beside the bed, adjusting the blanket over me.

“But—”

“Quiet. You can rest until lunch; after that, you will continue studying.”

“But—”

He adjusted the pillow under my head and tucked me in.

“This was a punishment, William. If you want something, you need to ask properly. Not with a drunken poem. Not with red paint on the wall of a consecrated chamber. Is that clear?”

I mumbled into the pillow.

Locke leaned down and pressed a small kiss into my hair.

“Clear?” he repeated.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now rest.”

Notes:

Please please please let me know what you think!!!

Also, the next chapter most probably won’t come in the next three weeks – I will be going from one holiday straight to the other ^^
Thanks so much for your patience <3

Chapter 53: The Leather Straps Around My Wrists

Summary:

Time passes. Will tries to deal with the absence of his magic.

Notes:

Holdiaying was a lot of fun!!!
But:
Did I long the whole time to be at home and write?
Yes.
When I got home and sat in front of my laptop, did I stare at the blank pages of the document with an empty mind and with zero ideas?
Of course.
Anyway, finally I can truly say: nothing really happens in this chapter.
I’m not at all satisfied with this, but whatever, let’s move on, because now we are really getting close to the final arc, and although I still don’t know how we will get there, I’m really excited *.*

Locke turned another page in that massive book of his, humming quietly. “You have done reasonably well,” he said, not looking up. “One last question.”

I sat rigid in the chair across from his desk, hands clasped too tightly in my lap, fighting to keep my legs still. 

One last question.

He ran a finger down the page, then tapped it once. 

“Under Statute 7-B,” he said slowly, “how many signatures are required to authorise the temporary disenchantment of a Class III artefact?”

I went still.

The silence rang.

Locke was looking at me expectantly.

“Uh,” I said. “How many…signatures?”

“Yes,” Locke replied evenly.

Shit.

“Three?”

Locke raised a single eyebrow.

Shit, shit, shit.

“Are you asking, or is that your answer?”

I swallowed hard and wiped my sweaty palms on my knees. “That’s... my answer.”

Locke looked at me without a flicker of emotion. I couldn’t read anything in his face.

Then, slowly, he nodded. “All right.”

My heart thudded. I glanced up at him cautiously, hardly daring to hope. “I… passed?”

The faintest smile tugged at the corner of Locke’s mouth. “You did.” He closed the book and set it aside. “Congratulations.”

My heart was still pounding, but I could feel the tension leaving my muscles. I sank back into the chair with a deep breath.

Locke sat down and pulled a few papers in front of him, beginning to draft the official certification of my result. The room was quiet for a while.

“Did you even read it?” he asked eventually.

I flinched. “You mean…”

Locke glanced up, eyes narrowed. “Do you know which book covers the authorisation of temporary disenchantment for Class III artefacts?”

“Er…”

“Revisions to the Magical Artefact Statutes: Annotated Edition. Chapter 62.”

“Um…”

“It was quite bold of you to turn up here again without reading that book.”

“Well…”

“Or perhaps we should say foolish? Negligent?”

“But I passed.”

“You did. But you will read the book, and I will be testing you on it. Shall we say in a week’s time?”

“But I already passed the exam! I’ve finished the course! You can’t just—”

His look shut me up.

“William. You are my apprentice. I think that gives me every right to tell you what you need to study, doesn’t it?”

“Well…”

He tapped my results sheet in front of him.

“I haven’t signed it yet,” he said. “Are you quite sure you would like to keep arguing?”

I huffed. “No.”

“Good.” He scrawled his signature at the bottom of the page. “That’s settled, then. Well done, William.”

I narrowed my eyes at him— was he mocking me? But Locke was just smiling as he pushed the papers aside. He clasped his hands in front of him on the desk and looked straight at me.

“I should also inform you that tomorrow morning we will be holding a meeting regarding your bloodline. Councillor Ashmore and Councillor Khaemt will be present. You are permitted to attend as well.  And your mother will be travelling here to join the discussion.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Tomorrow morning—” he began again, tone patient.

“My mother?” I interrupted, the words catching like splinters in my throat.

“Yes,” Locke said, unfazed.

“She’s coming here?” 

“Yes,” he repeated.

I shot to my feet, chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. “And you’re just telling me this now?”

Locke’s expression didn’t change. “Your bloodline involves your mother as well. Naturally, she will take part in the proceedings.”

“But she’s coming here?” I gaped. “My mother? Here? Tomorrow? ”

“Yes,” Locke said simply. “As I just told you.”

“But… What…” I pushed my chair aside and started pacing up and down the room. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier ?” My voice came out oddly high-pitched.

“Earlier,” said Locke slowly, “I needed you to remain focused on your exam.”

I clutched at my hair with both hands. “I haven’t written her a single letter. I promised I would write…”

Locke tilted his head slightly but didn’t reply.

“I’m not free tomorrow morning,” I said suddenly.

“You don’t have any lesson tomorrow,” Locke said, still sitting behind his desk with that same deathly calm, as if the world were not on the verge of collapsing around us.

“I’m not free,” I repeated. “I have…studying to do.”

The corner of Locke’s mouth twitched. “Studying what?”

I paused for a beat. “The... the book. For you. On the Magical Artefact Statutes.”

“You have a full week for that.”

“But... Well… Rowland. I’m meeting with him in two days and I’ve still got loads to read!”

Locke’s eyebrows lifted. “You seem to spend a remarkable amount of time preparing for his lessons,” he observed.

“Because he has utterly unrealistic expectations,” I grumbled, stopping my pacing and planting myself by the window. “He’s deliberately trying to embarrass me.”

Locke hummed quietly behind me. “How, exactly?” His voice sounded suspiciously amused.

I sighed. “He assigns more reading than is humanly possible,” I muttered, glaring at the wall beneath the window, resisting the urge to kick it.

“How many books has he assigned you?" Locke asked. I rolled my eyes, grunting softly. His voice still didn’t carry the outrage the situation clearly warranted.

“He gave me a list last week,” I mumbled, turning back to face him. “Thirteen titles.”

Locke did at least look mildly surprised for a moment. “And he told you to read all of them this week?”

Suddenly, I didn’t know what to do with my hands. “Well…”

Locke shot me a sharp look. “Did he or did he not, William?”

“Not exactly , but…”

Locke sighed. “Sit down. We need to talk about your daily routine anyway.”

I stood rigid and motionless, absently scraping at the thin, impenetrable leather of the armband on my left wrist.

Locke gestured towards the chair.

I took a small step back.

“There’s nothing wrong with my daily routine,” I said.

Locke’s voice was soft but grim. “Thirteen books in a week isn’t discipline; it’s obsession. If you can’t set boundaries, I will set them for you.”

“But—”

Locke sighed deeply, and a sudden pang of guilt hit me for how tired he looked. When he cast another pointed glance at the chair, I crossed the room in a few quick strides and sat down, awkwardly clutching my hands in my lap.

Locke put a hand on the desk. “I know how much you are missing your magic.”

My stomach dropped. That wasn’t what I expected. I was ready to roll my eyes at a lecture, ready to argue about anything… but this? I just froze.

“I understand that you perhaps want to distract yourself with something,” Locke added gently.

“I’m not… I— I mean…”

“But it’s not a solution to bury yourself obsessively in your studies.”

I forced myself to roll my eyes. “This makes no sense,” I scoffed, shaking off the confusion, shaking off that creeping, unwanted sense of being seen. Shaking off all compliance. “I’m not distracting myself—I’m preparing for my classes. I’ve just had a bunch of exams. You just complained I didn’t study enough for yours.”

“You had a whole semester to read that book,” Locke said, tilting his head to one side. 

I folded my arms across my chest. “That’s nonsense. I spend just the right amount of time studying. I don’t even know what you want. What else am I supposed to do besides reading? As you know, I can’t use magic—I’m not even able to cast the smallest charm without the world turning upside down or the Sanctum going up in flames, or whatever else you think might happen…”

“The armbands won’t be on you forever.”

“Well, right now, it feels pretty much like fucking forever.”

“I promise it won’t last forever.”

“But…” I wanted to say something nasty, or whiny, or angry, but my voice cracked, and the words caught in my throat. I hated this. I hated myself for it. Hated how small my voice sounded. “But… how long?”

Locke sighed slowly, his eyes too soft, too understanding. “We are having that meeting about your bloodline tomorrow,” he said. “If we learn more details, we will be able to better understand your magic and your connection to the Dusk. And the better we understand what’s happening to you, the closer we will get to learning how to control your power, and—”

“It’s pointless if I’m not capable of controlling it,” I muttered.

“And,” Locke continued firmly, “this process will eventually lead to you not needing to wear the armbands anymore.”

Thoughts danced on the tip of my tongue. 

Joking: They’re actually quite comfortable.

Sobbing: I want my magic, please, please, please, please.  

Quiet and honest: I’m terrified I’ll lose control again.

I bit down hard on my tongue, the taste of blood flooding my mouth. I stayed silent.

“Do you understand that?” Locke asked softly.

I shrugged. “What’s there to understand?”

“That the armbands are there to keep you safe. Not a punishment. Not because you have done something wrong. Not a mistake. Just a difficult, temporary situation… very difficult, but it won’t last forever.” 

“I get it,” I muttered, unenthusiastically.

A heavy silence fell over the room as Locke studied my face thoughtfully.

I avoided his gaze, looking down at my knees and stubbornly kicking the leg of the chair with my heel.

Locke sighed. “Training continues only every other morning,” he finally said. “For your lessons with me, I think three afternoons a week will be enough. You are still a bit behind in alchemy, and there’s plenty we can practise without magic, but in general you are making great progress. For meditation, however, I still expect you every evening—”

I groaned. “ Every evening?”

“Every evening,” Locke repeated.

“But couldn’t we—”

“No, we couldn’t.”

“Let’s rather do the training every morning, or you know what, every night too, just not—”

“This isn’t up for discussion, William.”

“But—”

Locke waved me off. “We can skip tonight, but starting tomorrow, I won’t be lenient.”

“Lenient,” I repeated in a dry voice.

Locke just raised an eyebrow, slowly enough to send a shiver up my spine. “You are free this afternoon. Spend some time resting, too.”

 

*

 

I had everything perfectly planned for the morning of the meeting: slip out of Locke’s bed early, get dressed properly, maybe even brush my hair, pretend to be nervous and tense (though truthfully, that didn’t take much acting), then go down for breakfast and, afterwards—disappear.

I didn’t want to miss the meeting—just wanted to be a little late so I could skip that awkward standing-around-at-the-start moment. 

But Locke appeared at my door when I was hiding in my room. When telling me to get moving didn’t work and I stubbornly stayed perched on the edge of my bed, he simply grabbed me by the sleeve and dragged me across the Sanctum.

So there we were, sitting around the table in Councillor Ashmore’s office: Ashmore herself, Councillor Khaemt, a few scholars who worked with her, and us—waiting for some historian to arrive.

The Queen sat opposite me, never taking her eyes off me. The Queen who still saw me as Prince Arvil Thalen of Arundel —her seventh and youngest child, the one who disappeared for twelve years and was presumed dead, only to return as a powerful, undisciplined, dangerous magician.

Beside her sat the royal magician, who hadn’t aged a day since I last saw him as a child—back when his magic still amazed me and terrified me a little, though I’d also found it amusing to sneak into his workshop and mix up the bottles on his shelves.

Locke—half the time obsessively focused on discipline, half the time making me fantasize about things I shouldn’t—sat beside me.

Rowland was on the far side, grumpy and morose as always.

My knee was bouncing almost painfully fast. I didn’t look at anyone. Ashmore, my mother, and Locke were quietly talking. Khaemt and one of the scholars showed papers to Rowland, who muttered quietly in response.

Finally, at long last, the door opened, and the historian I had seen a few times alongside Khaemt, entered. He was followed by a scribe, then by Councillor Aman and two librarians who worked with him at the Lost Library, and the room suddenly felt decidedly crowded as, amidst greetings and welcomes, everyone settled around the table.

I kept staring silently at the table in front of me. I felt my mother’s thoughtful, curious, and—most annoyingly— worried gaze on me. Locke kept sending careful looks in my direction too. Even the royal mage was watching me, and I breathed a sigh of relief when Ashmore finally started to speak.

The scribe’s quill scratched across the paper, but I barely paid attention as Ashmore delivered the usual introduction: we had gathered to discuss the mysteries of Lysander Langston’s bloodline and related matters. Many were present. We welcomed the queen and thanked her for her support. Blah blah blah.

I kept kicking at the leg of my chair until Locke shot me a pointed look, forcing me to still my foot with some effort.

It was Councillor Khaemt who finally unfurled a large parchment scroll and laid it on the table, but it was Councillor Aman and his librarians who spoke first—detailing notes, records, and magical traces found in the Lost Library. Despite the vague details and the fact that much of it delved into dark, dangerous magic, it allowed them to discover that the late Councillor Lysander Langston had achieved the impossible: despite his magical power, he managed to have children by his own blood—not just one, but seven .

My stomach clenched coldly. My eyes met Councillor Aman’s, and he returned my gaze with an understanding, almost gentle, almost sad. This made my stomach twist harder; I knew I had been right to suspect where this was heading.

Locke’s gaze drifted to my fingers as I fiddled with the thin leather strap of the armbands beneath the table, but he said nothing.

Aman and Khaemt traced lines on the parchment. More sheets were spread out. One scholar spoke about the locations and the archives where they searched for evidence. The room felt smaller and smaller. Rowland leaned forward, his voice tinged with suspicion, prompting one of the librarians to nod vigorously and lay out another parchment before him.

My mother studied her own family tree and nodded, participating in the discussion like one of the scholars.

I felt nauseous.

“So the seventh child of Lysander had seven children as well,” said Locke slowly.

More parchments. Small, italicized text. Dates, data, half-known and half-researched family trees. Question marks and gaps, but the same pattern, again and again and again...

“And the seventh child of that generation had seven children...” Aman said, pointing to more names with his long, pale finger.

“And this pattern continues...” the Queen whispered.

“No,” I said sharply. My voice was loud and sharp, but as every head turned towards me, I didn’t feel like a powerful, mysterious magician—more like a child speaking out of turn at the grown-ups’ table. I swallowed hard and forced myself to continue, keeping my eyes on my mother. “You have three older brothers,” I said, trying to sound confident and certain, and not as stubborn and desperate as I felt. “Three. You’re a fourth child, not a seventh.”

My mother was silent for a moment before she answered. “Yes,” she said finally. “Until a few days ago, I believed the same.”

I stared at her. “You believed that... but? What?”

I caught the disapproving glances— how dare I use such an impatient tone with the queen —but I didn’t look at anyone except my mother.

She sighed deeply. Silver strands shimmered through her dark red hair, and her face was gentle, looking at me with the same love she had when I was a small child and she sometimes found the time to read me stories before I went to sleep.

“I spoke with my father,” she said. “And I invited him to speak with Councillor Khaemt as well.”

I kept looking at her questioningly. The words “and?” or “what the hell happened then?” hovered on the tip of my tongue—but then it dawned on me.

There was silence in the room.

Awkward, stretched silence.

Locke’s jaw tightened minutely.

Councillor Ashmore shifted.

I leaned back in my chair—the tension suddenly tasted very delicious.

“Oh,” I said lightly, “so no one wants to be the one to say it, huh?”

“William,” warned Locke.

I kept my gaze on my mother and cocked up an eyebrow. “No one wants to say it out loud?” I asked. “Your noble, pompous father having bastards?”

The scribe’s quill stilled mid-scratch. Khaemt’s eyebrows drew slightly together, though her face remained politely neutral. One of the historians coughed into his sleeve. Rowland grunted. Councillor Aman glanced at Locke.

Locke didn’t move—just sent me a long, flat stare.

My mother, however, simply rested her hands on the table—calm, unhurried—and looked back at me with an open, composed, and almost… amused expression.

“Yes,” she said. “Your grandfather had three children before he married my mother, and my brothers and I were born.” 

I snorted. “So much for the mighty nobleman’s reputation—”

I felt myself flush at my mother’s gaze. I clamped my mouth shut and turned back to the rows of names and dates and statistics on the parchments—my stomach clenching painfully as my thoughts returned to the topic. One of the historians cleared their throat softly and spread another paper in the middle of the table—I recognised the names of my parents, my siblings, and myself.

The conversation continued as if nothing had happened.

“So, based on this, Her Majesty the Queen...”

“Seventh child...”

“And the apprentice...”

“I don’t think we have ever encountered such a pattern before in known history.”

“So many seventh children…”

“And Prince Arvil…”

My mother smiled at me, sad but full of infinite love. “My seventh child,” she said.

I could feel everyone’s eyes on me around the table.

Councillor Khaemt, with endless calm, slowly unfurled the last parchment handed to her by one of the scholars. It depicted a family tree spanning seven generations, with plenty of gaps and question marks—but the point was clear: seven generations. Seven seventh children.

“Well,” Rowland’s deep, grumbling, somewhat drawn-out voice broke the silence, “That explains his poor control.”

I swallowed hard, my nails scraping at the armbands on my wrist, instinctively digging small crescents into my skin.

Everyone knew that magicians born as seventh children possessed great power. Legends and stories told of their heroic deeds and adventures (and cautionary tales warned of the need to handle such power carefully). But such cases had happened before, were known , and could be managed— but seven times over?

Will I have to wear these damned armbands forever?

“According to the records, there’s no precedent for a similar situation before,” Aman said.

Locke narrowed his eyes, pulling closer a sheet full of dates and—I have no idea why—multi-variable equations. “A seventh child of a seventh child of a seventh child… seven times over?”

“All signs point to that,” Khaemt nodded.

“And no one in the bloodline before had magical powers?” Locke asked, furrowing his brow as he examined the parchment like someone who really understood all those calculations.

“Since Councillor Langston, it certainly appears not,” Khaemt replied.

“This is… a lot of power.” Locke glanced at me from the corner of his eye.

Wearing these damn armbands forever, I’m sure of it.

The conversation went on quietly around the table, as if they hadn’t just spread out before us all these neatly arranged scrolls proving there was no point in me even trying—that I was almost certainly the result of some sick experiment by Lysander, doomed to power I would never be able to control. So why am I even still an apprentice? If I’m going to wear these damn things forever, then why am I even still in the Sanctum?

Aman spoke about the records they found in Lysander’s horror-laboratory beneath the Lost Library. Apparently, Lysander was meticulous in keeping a journal, even if his notes grew increasingly desperate and chaotic over time. I tried not to think of the room beneath the Lost Library: dust, shadows, and forgotten magic. Colours and scents that have haunted my dreams ever since. Lives, experiments, and death. According to Aman, it would take probably years to sift through everything, to piece together even a fraction of what Lysander had left behind. 

Years.

The word echoed in my mind like a slow drumbeat as Rowland talked about restrictions, about safety, and about the danger hidden in the unknown.

According to Ashmore, the most important thing was that I study with unwavering diligence.

Of course. I forced a polite nod.

Their voices faded into a dull buzz in the background of my thoughts, questions and answers swirling around me. Concern, calm, patience. Ongoing research, plans, promises. Ashmore’s steady voice, Rowland’s muttering, one of the librarians’ lengthy explanations. My mother’s firm, confident tone. Locke’s brief interjections.

I nodded again—apparently agreeing to something—because Ashmore gave a satisfied nod in return, while the scribe’s quill scratched furiously across the page.

There’s no point in me being here.

The meeting was drawing to a close. Polite platitudes, farewells, gratitude, planning. When the Queen rose, so did everyone else, and my legs moved instinctively to follow.

“I wish to take a walk with my son,” declared the Queen.

“Of course,” said a voice. It was Locke who answered. “The gardens are always open.”

I blinked in surprise, first at Locke, then at my mother. Locke’s hand squeezed my shoulder for a brief moment, and then we were already out in the corridor and the Council’s most important members were scattering in every direction. Guards appeared from somewhere—the palace guards accompanying my mother and the Council’s guards as well—to lead us into the Citadel’s inner gardens, where the carefully trimmed hedges and perfectly shaped, blossoming spring trees displayed an almost unnatural, meticulous order.

My mother was the same height as me. Or rather—what was more surprising, after my childhood memories—that I was the same height as my mother. Her voice was soft and gentle as she spoke about the palace, about my father and my siblings: everyday little things that were easy to listen to and made me smile as we walked along the path that cut across a lawn far too green for the season.

Fine lines framed my mother’s face, and a faint smile played at the corners of her lips, but her eyes looked just a little sad when they met mine.

And it was fine to walk, it was fine to listen to stories about my siblings and my nieces and nephews—but it hurt to see the sadness in my mother’s eyes.

I wished I could turn back time, even just to last week, to write her the letter I had promised.

Or to go all the way back to when I was nine and send her a note, letting her know I was alive.

Mother stopped beside a small, round fountain, where stone fish spat water into the air, the sound blending with the dense greenery that enclosed us on all sides. I froze as she turned to me, her hand reaching out gently to rest against my cheek.

“Are you happy here?” she asked.

“I—”

I stared at her, forgetting to blink, forgetting to breathe, my eyes locked on the deep green of hers—so like my own. People always said I resembled her the most. The bright eyes. The delicate features. The dark red locks of hair all her children had inherited, but only mine curled exactly the way hers did.

I wanted to say yes, that I was happy, but the words caught in my throat. For a moment I feared I might cry in front of my mother—and then I pictured the Council witnessing the Queen’s reaction if her youngest son burst into tears over not being happy as their newest apprentice. The image almost made me laugh.

My fingers dug into the skin around the armbands.

“Vil?” my mother prompted.

“I… I usually am,” I said quietly. “It’s just… a bit hard right now.”

I saw my mother swallow hard. Her face tightened and her eyes flashed, and I thought for a moment that the Council might actually have to answer for failing to keep Prince Arvil Thalen of Arundel happy…

Then her expression softened, and she let out a deep sigh.

“I know,” she said quietly. “I know… It’s foolish to hope you could be as carefree as you once were, the way I knew you as a child. Losing you…” Mother’s voice trailed off, and she gave a sharp shake of her head when small drops of tears appeared at the corner of her eyes. “I’m proud of you, my son,” she said at last. “I wish for everything to turn out the way you want it to. And whatever happens, I am—always, always—so very proud of you.”

I wished I could do it as easily as she did—press my lips together for a moment, shake my head, and have the tears vanish from my eyes so I could lift my chin again, regal and composed and beautiful, like a Queen beloved by an entire kingdom.

Since I couldn’t, I only bowed my head, swallowed hard, and shifted awkwardly from foot to foot.

My mother merely smiled and pulled me into a tight embrace before leading me onward on our slow walk through the gardens, talking about little nothings that, despite all my efforts, made me smile. 

 

*

 

The days passed more slowly than usual. I slept next to Locke. Every other morning we trained, and I gradually got back into the habits of the balancing, focusing, and strengthening exercises. At least during those moments, I didn’t have to think about magic. Some afternoons, Locke would quiz me on alchemical principles, but most of the time he just assigned research work, essays, or reading—books on zoology and botany, history, law, and economics.

By the time Rowland’s class came around, I had read six of the books he assigned and could answer every single one of his questions flawlessly.

During Verdance’s lesson in the Vivarium, I stayed in the background and took notes quietly, trying to draw as little attention to myself as possible.

For Councillor Padló’s philosophy lesson, I submitted an essay twice as long as requested. While he had a very positive opinion of the sources I gathered, he didn’t much appreciate the remarks I included in the footnotes.

Days passed slowly. 

One free afternoon, I snuck out to the training yard to practice the swordsmanship drills, slow and awkward and painful at first, but growing a tiny bit steadier with each swing.

Every evening, Locke made me meditate. Sometimes it was… pleasant, almost soothing. Other times, I resisted stubbornly, and nothing came of it. According to him, meditation was pointless if I threw a tantrum. When he said that, I slammed the door in his face and ran off. Later that night, he kissed me on the bed with such intensity that, if the pillows hadn’t held me up, I think I would have melted away; he apologised for calling my resistance a tantrum and promised that the next day I could choose how I wanted to meditate. I said “not at all,” but I couldn’t finish the sentence that followed—about where he could shove his beloved meditation—because his fingers slipped beneath the hem of my trousers and choked the words down my throat.

In any case, the next day I only had to do a short breathing exercise—though it didn’t go very well, because I kept blushing whenever Locke looked at me.

 

My free mornings quite accidentall y aligned with Sol’s free mornings. He just happened to bump into me in the library, and when I asked what he was even doing there, he blushed and mumbled something about some books he couldn’t actually name.

But it was good, spending some time there with Sol.

Then we walked through a tall inner courtyard, where the low spring sun hadn’t yet reached over the surrounding walls, but the bushes were already budding and the flowers started to blossom in many different colours. Sol suggested we could go up to the roof.

“The roof?” I asked, astonished. “I thought you were scared of going up there. You know, because it’s forbidden and all that.”

“I’m not… I don’t… you know, I don’t think we’d actually get in trouble…”

I raised my eyebrows. “If someone sees us up there, you’ll be in trouble too, Sol. Maybe even more than I, since everyone still thinks you’re well-behaved and rule-abiding. No one has such illusions about me.”

Sol shrugged. “We… we’ll be fine.”

I snorted, but we went up to the roof anyway. The city sprawled out wide beneath us, colourful facades and ornate windows gleaming in the sunlight. I turned my face towards the wind, wondering what Locke might have said to Sol. To my surprise, I realised that whatever it was, I didn’t actually mind.

It felt good to be up there.

 

A new week had started. I wrote a letter to my mother, then tossed it out, re-wrote it and repeated the process eight more times. Locke helped me send the letter—the Council’s courier, of course, was allowed to use Auric Dust, so my mother received it the very same day, and her reply arrived by the following afternoon. Ilara wrote too—about the royal guard, the blooming trees in the palace gardens, the puppies that had just been born, and the fact that Lander still wanted to punch me.

The world was getting warmer and greener.

In the mornings, Sol and I would stand on the rooftop, watching as more and more trees blossomed, the sky grew bluer above the houses, and the white snow on the distant mountains retreated further and further back.

Weeks went by, and Rowland no longer seemed surprised when I could answer every single one of his questions. He had also started teaching me all kinds of strange mental exercises: he was convinced that if I imagined myself at the bottom of a lake, I wouldn’t drown in my mind (he didn’t appreciate it when I joked about that), but rather learn to focus on the currents and quiet my thoughts. He made me read songs in strange languages and told me to try singing in canon with myself in my mind. I called it nonsense, but when I tried it secretly before falling asleep, listening to Locke’s calm breathing, I actually enjoyed the challenge.

In Councillor Verdance’s class, we fed the silver manirs, and I laughed along with the others when one of the three-legged creatures snatched Gavin’s notebook—complete with his rather messy anatomical sketches of the manirs—in its tiny claws and tossed it into the river.

But the armbands were still tight around my wrists, turning the world silent and empty, and when the others in Councillor Arfinnr’s class were practicing astral wards, for half an hour, I just sat motionless and useless in the back corner, wanting nothing more than to run out of the room, and then vanish from the whole world entirely.

Locke kept saying it was only a matter of time. Only a matter of time, and I’d be able to take them off. He told me about the research Aman and Khaemt were doing in the Lost Library, trying to learn as much as possible about Lysander Langston’s experiments.

“That doesn’t get me any closer to controlling anything,” I said.

“The more we understand, the more—”

“But what do we understand?” I cut in, ignoring Locke’s disapproving look. “Why can’t anyone just admit that we have no idea how I could possibly be safe without these damn things? Why do you all keep saying it’s just a matter of time, that it won’t last forever? Why can’t we just say it—this is it, we can’t fix it, so I’m stuck like this forever?”

“Because it’s not—”

“Forget it.” I swung my legs off the table I was sitting on, grabbing my book, and headed for the door. (The book was a rather dull treatise on necromancy, taken from Locke’s shelf as he had promised long ago—after I had finally managed, just a few days earlier, to complete that overcomplicated drill.) “Forget it,” I repeated, and slammed the door behind me loudly.

 

*

 

Councillor Padló’s common lessons were one-hour-and-a-half-long monologues on the dullest philosophical questions magic ever had to offer. 

I was sitting cross-legged on Locke’s bed, my back against the headboard, the book for Padló’s class open on my knees. Chapter Four asked: What has magic given you in your life, how can you express your gratitude, and what can you give back?

I had gloomy and bitter thoughts about magic as the tip of my pen absentmindedly scribbled in the margin of the book. By the time I realized I was doodling in a library book, half the page and my fingers were already covered in black ink.

A simple spell could clean up everything.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to ignore the gnawing emptiness. I will just ask Locke to fix it before Aman or one of the librarians decides to have my head.

Locke.

The logical part of my mind knew that Locke might shake his head, maybe scold me a little for not taking better care of the book—but then, with an easy gesture, he could make the scribbles vanish.

The other part of my mind, however, was certain that Locke would hate me for making him do even this for me.

What has magic Locke given you in your life, how can you express your gratitude, and what can you give back?

I tried to push the thought aside, but it kept slipping back.

He hadn’t even wanted an apprentice. When he caught me stealing, he had probably only wanted me to be properly punished for what I had done and never have to see me again — instead, they had saddled him with me.

And I had shown my gratitude by… probably making his life hell ever since.

As for how many times he’d saved mine—I had lost count long ago.

I was utterly, completely, down to the deepest corner of my being certain that I didn’t deserve the time Locke spent on me.

All I ever did was bother him. Annoy him. Most of the time—fuck it—on purpose.

I’m ungrateful, and trouble, and constantly talking back. Rolling my eyes at care. Mocking his kind words.

A burden. A mess. Danger. 

I heard Locke’s steps from the lounge before the door opened. I turned my face away and lifted the book higher. He came in—then promptly tripped over my shirt from yesterday, lying right across the doorway.

I kept my eyes on the page. Locke sighed.

“Would you mind tidying up after yourself?” His voice was calm, though threaded with weary disapproval.

I tossed the book aside. He blinked at me as I slid off the bed. When I bent to pick up the shirt, his hand shot out, but I jerked away.

“William?” His voice was uncertain. “What—”

“Leave me,” I muttered, clutching the dirty shirt in trembling fingers and trying to edge past him.

He raised a hand in front of me. “Stop.”

I took a deep breath, glaring at him, letting my fingers clench into tight fists.

“It’s hardly unreasonable to want your clothes off the floor,” Locke said slowly. “I can see something’s wrong. Talk to me, please.”

I barked a bitter laugh. “Talk? Fuck. Go to hell.”

Surprise and confusion in Locke’s eyes. His lips pressed together for a moment, and he shook his head. “Sit down, please.”

I wanted to shout. Instead I just growled, shoved the shirt into his face, ducked under his arm, and bolted.

“Will!”

“Fuck you.” I stamped through the sitting room.

“What happened?”

I turned around. He stood in the door of the bedroom; I stood on the other side of the lounge, the room warm and cosy between us. “No,” I said, my voice trembling with anger and with other feelings I refused to acknowledge. “No. I’m going to go to my room and I’m going to grab every bloody shirt I own and scatter them all over the floor. I’m not gonna bother you with my clothes lying around here. You don’t need to care. It doesn’t make any difference anyway.”

Locke said something, but I wasn’t listening. The door slammed behind me with a loud, empty bang.

 

I would have done it if I had my magic.

Shaking and gasping for breath, I pressed my back to my bedroom door—the bed unmade, the floor littered with books, notes, and clothes—and fixed my gaze on the wardrobe. It was so easy to picture the spell, simple and effortless: a single flick, barely more than a thought, the doors flying open and my identical white uniform shirts hurtling into every corner of the room…

I would have done it without hesitation. 

Fast. Free.

…And it would have felt so good.

My breathing was ragged. The thin leather bands rested innocently around my wrists, and my magic was missing. Gone. Absent.

Only the gnawing, sick, unbearable silence.

I stared at the wardrobe doors. In my mind they flew open, white linen fluttering as my power ripped the shirts from their hangers…but, of course, nothing happened. My stomach hurt, my lungs burned as I tried to force the magic past the armbands’ suppression. Nothing. I lifted my arm. The magic was there—I could feel it—trembling, hot, sharp. I fixed my eyes on the wardrobe, imagined the doors opening, imagined it tumbling forward, imagined it in flames, anything, just—

But nothing happened.

Gnawing emptiness.

I screamed, and inside me the magic screamed too. My nose was bleeding. My nails dug into the thin leather of the cuffs, clawing, tearing, trying to rip through the material that wouldn’t yield.

Nothing happened.

I stared at the wardrobe. It stood still and silent. Raising my left wrist to my mouth, I tried to bite through the leather. My right hand was summoning, pushing, shoving the magic towards the wardrobe, scraping together just a scrap— anything —to drag it past the armbands grip.

Nothing.

My teeth slipped on the leather. A flash of magic—not mine, the armband’s—and pain tore through my arm, up to my shoulder, down my spine, searing across my mind. I slid to the floor. There was no magic. Nothing but writhing pain, blood on my face, silence, and emptiness.

The only thing I could feel was the weight of the leather straps around my wrists, and the cold certainty that they would still be there tomorrow.

Notes:

Please tell me what you think<3

Chapter 54: Picnic

Summary:

Small conversations. A picnic. Smacks.

Notes:

So much time has passed, I can hardly believe it.
Anyway, I had to figure out a lot of things, but now I have got a pretty good plan for how this story will come to an end. Yay!

I wanted to dream of Lysander, but lately I’d only been having ordinary, mundane nightmares. Locke was breathing quietly beside me, and I lay awake, staring up at the dark ceiling above my head, thinking about Lysander.

If it weren’t for these bloody bands on my wrists, I could be dreaming of him. Ask him my questions. Somehow, fucking force him to answer. 

I rolled onto my side, mumbled into the pillow, then nudged Locke’s shoulder until he squinted and blinked himself awake.

“Will?” His voice was still hoarse from sleep. “What happened? Are you all right?”

“I was just thinking about whether Lysander’s secret chambers here in the Sanctum, behind his portrait, have been fully searched yet,” I murmured.

Locke blinked, confused. “No,” he said, frowning. “It’s still in progress.”

“And the portrait…is it locked? Protected by magic?”

Locke propped himself up on his elbow and sent a small, faint light-sphere floating above our heads.

“Of course,” he replied.

“Could anyone get in?”

“No.”

“Me without these?” I held up one wrist.

Confusion on Locke’s face gave way to something deeper, still sleepy, but sharply suspicious. “Probably,” he replied cautiously.

“Will you take them off?” I tried, keeping my tone casual.

“No,” Locke said.

“But—”

“Why are you even thinking about breaking into locked areas of the Sanctum in the middle of the night?”

“I just want to know more about Lysander,” I muttered, crossly.

Locke sighed. The suspicion softened into pity, which made me want to roll onto my other side and cry.

“Soon,” he said.

“What happens if I try to break in behind the portrait?” I asked.

“The security charms won’t let you in, and they will alert the guards,” Locke replied.

I grumbled in resignation and dropped my head back onto the pillow.

“Try to sleep,” muttered Locke, extinguishing the light sphere. I sighed wearily, but let him draw me closer and wrap his arms around me.

 

*

 

“I’m barging into the next council meeting,” I muttered, leaning over the star chart. Sol, squinting with one eye, tried to set his compass to the right position along the planets’ orbits, but shot me a questioning glance. “And I’m demanding to get rid of these shits.”

“Brilliant idea,” said Sol, aligning the corners of the parchments so that the star positions matched up properly. Councillor Arfinnr was quietly explaining something to Gavin and Mirn at the neighbouring table.

“I’m serious,” I whispered.

Sol sighed, put down the compass, and picked up the long wooden ruler. “Listen, Will. If you want to convince the Council that you’re reliable, maybe ask for an audience with Councillor Ashmore. Talk to her, and if she sees reason, she might summon you back before the Council.”

I blinked several times and leaned back a little as Sol waved around with the ruler.

“Audience?” 

“Of course. And you’ll also need Councillor Locke’s permission to get across to the Citadel, won’t you?”

“You’re frighteningly enlightened.”

Sol shrugged and put the ruler down, adjusting it between some moons, just as Councillor Arfinnr  stepped towards us.

“How’s it going, lads?” he asked.

“We’re calculating the potential energy buildup from possible solar flares,” Sol replied, and I tried to nod along as someone who had paid any attention to the solar flares in the last ten minutes. 

 

It so happened that I presented myself for an audience with Councillor Ashmore. Everything was precise and orderly: with Locke’s permission, I walked through the Citadel, waited for a while in the spacious corridor lined with ridiculously tall columns, and then, at the guards’ signal, I was finally permitted to enter Ashmore’s study.

I stood politely with my hands clasped behind my back, facing Ashmore’s desk, and she listened patiently and thoughtfully as I laid out my case. I brought evidence: descriptions unearthed from the deepest crooks of the library, detailing previous attempts to eliminate the Dusk, the harmful effects of the Kowlanow armbands, and the most reliable protective enchantments against dark forces.

Ashmore scrutinised me silently for a while after I finished speaking. Her scribe’s quill ceased its scratching, and in the ensuing silence, nothing could be heard except the soft crackle of the fireplace behind me.

“Thank you for such thorough work,” Ashmore finally said. “I shall consider your proposal.”

I stared at her during the silence that followed her words. I glanced at the clerk, then back at Ashmore.

“That’s it?” I couldn’t keep the desperate disappointment from my voice.

Ashmore sighed deeply, and her gaze, as it fell on me, did not seem bored or annoyed—rather, it was gentle. Almost pitying. “William…”

“I’ve spent weeks on this,” I said, gesturing to the open books, notes, and records spread between us. “It would be entirely reasonable, safe, and feasible—”

“To use your magical power to draw the entire Dusk to yourself is anything but reasonable or safe,” Ashmore replied, leaning on the edge of her desk with her fingers steepled beneath her chin. “We shall work on a way for you not to have to wear the armbands forever. But we cannot rush into reckless experiments that could endanger not only your life but the lives of many others.”

“But here it is,” I said, frantically searching beneath the papers before opening one of the thicker tomes. “With the proper protective enchantments—”

“We do not know enough about the Dusk to say what the proper protective enchantments are.” Ashmore shook her head.

“And whose fault is that?” I muttered, slamming the book shut.

For the first time, Ashmore’s eyes flashed with a hint of displeasure. “You know very well that Lysander Langston concealed the circumstances of the Dusk’s creation with magic. Our research since then has been thorough and detailed, but we must not lull ourselves into the belief that we know everything.”

“There are other books in the library about the Dusk,” I muttered stubbornly. “I once found them, long ago, but… I haven’t been able to since.”

Ashmore tilted her head to one side.

“Books?” she asked.

“Yes.” My fingers tightened around the book’s spine. “About the Dusk. They were hidden—I couldn’t see the shelf even when I was standing right next to it. A lot of the books were completely blank, as if someone had erased all the knowledge from them, and parts were missing from the others too. But well, I don’t think hiding them makes us any safer.”

Ashmore raised an eyebrow and studied me for a long moment again. I shifted uncomfortably under the weight of her gaze.

“The Council’s decisions are well-founded,” she said at last.

“I don’t think Lysander ever discussed with the Council what to do with those poor souls from whom he created the Dusk,” I remarked, slipping my hand into my coat pocket.

“We shall address your case,” Ashmore said, her tone so final that I knew the conversation was over. “Thank you for your thorough work. Leave your notes here, please.”

I glared at her, swallowing a retort. Then I thanked her for the time she had given me and stopped myself from slamming the door behind me as I left.

In the corridor, which had been completely deserted earlier, now an extremely old-looking Councillor was waiting, surrounded by a group of anxious scholars and pacing magicians. A few of them eyed me questioningly as I slipped past with my head bowed. Others whispered quietly about some storm. I did not look at anyone; the bloody armbands weighed on my wrists like lead.

 

*

 

I hated how elegant Locke looked, standing in the middle of the training ground with his sword raised, not even a drop of sweat on his forehead, not even a crease on his white shirt.

We’d been out in the small inner courtyard for nearly three-quarters of an hour. The paving stones were uneven beneath my feet, and I stumbled again as I tried to retreat from a swift, effortless sweep of his blade. I managed to block the next strike. Then, as I tried to brush away the sweaty strand of hair falling into my eyes, Locke took advantage of my distraction and knocked the sword clean out of my hand.

He stood perfectly still.

I kicked my sword aside in frustration.

Locke narrowed his eyes.

If I can’t use magic, it would be nice if at least I weren’t so hopeless at this.

The thought repeated itself endlessly in my head, but I kept my mouth shut.

If I can’t use magic…

Locke drew out his pocket watch. “We have still got a little time. Pick up the sword, we will try again. Pay more attention to your left foot.”

I muttered a few things under my breath that I really didn’t want him to hear as I picked up my sword. My arm already ached.

“Mind your balance,” Locke added, stepping back a little and twirling his blade with ease. “You are quick, and that’s very good. But first, be steady.”

Easy for you to say. Not everyone can be Councillor Perfect Steadiness.

Rolling my eyes, I lunged again, more stubborn than skilled, and he parried effortlessly. We circled; my boot slipping on the stones, my breath ragged, my thoughts distracted and sullen. 

He stepped to the right. I tried to follow, tried to parry, tried shifting my weight from one foot to the other, searching for that impossible balance. 

He was holding back—of course he was always holding back for me, but now he seemed to be more careful than he usually was. 

It made me so fucking angry.

The stone was wet beneath the sole of my boot, its edges uneven and sharp; so many chances to slip. Yet I tripped not over the stones, but over my own foot during an awkward turn, losing my balance as I tried both to duck away from Locke’s sword and, at the same time, possibly stab at his foot. My sword clanged uselessly on the ground, and I landed on my side with a sharp cry, my arm twisted beneath me at an awkward angle.

I’d fallen a dozen times every week—every training session, actually—knocking the air out of my lungs, smacking my knees into the stone or bruising my palms raw. But this pain was different: my shoulder throbbed, hot and sharp, and Locke was by my side instantly (while usually he just stood apart and ordered me to get on my feet).

A low groan escaped me as I tried to sit up. 

“Stay still,” murmured Locke.

“I’m fine,” I grunted.

He ignored me, lifting a hand to my shoulder. I saw his fingers moving in small, precise gestures, and I could feel the warmth spreading through my shoulder blade… 

I couldn’t feel or hear the magic.  

The pain was already easing. Locke helped me to sit up, guiding me so I didn’t put any weight on my injured arm. The burning ache faded into a gentle heat, and I knew his magic was numbing the nerves in my shoulder. I knew this was advanced healing magic, I knew I should have been grateful, but all I could think about was the silence.

My ragged, painful breathing.

My heart pounding in my chest.

The wind blowing in the distance.

A softly creaking, open window somewhere.

Not the low hum of the magic.

…Silence.

I barely felt my shoulder pop back into place.

“Breathe,” said Locke, his hand still at the small of my back.

The warmth of his magic lingered.

“I suck at healing magic,” I murmured.

“You will learn,” Locke replied, his fingers weaving yet another spell around my shoulder

“Not like this,” I muttered, staring down at the armbands peeking out from beneath my shirt sleeves.

For a moment, one of Locke’s hands gripped mine, and then it was gone. “Move your arm,” he said.

I did. I expected sharp, stabbing pain, but only felt a dull, fleeting ache.

“There,” Locke nodded. “The pain should fade steadily over the next hour. Tell me later if the stiffness lingers.”

I nodded, shifting slightly.

“Thank you,” I murmured.

The courtyard was quiet around us. I watched the sunlight glint off the windows of the upper storeys.

I reached tiredly for my sword, but Locke took it from my hand.

“You did well today,” he said softly.

“I tripped over my own leg,” I muttered, ignoring his outstretched hand as I clambered to my feet. “Very heroic.”

“I don’t expect you to be heroic,” he shrugged as he returned the sword to its place. “I expect you to take your work seriously. Try. Put in the effort.”

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, staring at the courtyard stones. Locke put our swords away, then turned back to me, watching me for a long moment.

“All right,” he said finally, soft and even, almost a murmur. “Go have breakfast. That will be enough for today.”

I didn’t answer. My throat felt tight, my hands curled into fists at my sides. I felt the wind ruffling my hair, the faint ache in my shoulder, the sharp weight in my chest. 

Locke’s eyes were soft and patient, and for a moment I hated that more than anything else.

I swallowed. I forced my fists to loosen. I kept my silence.

 

*

 

I stood outside Locke’s office door, biting my lip, wondering if I’d entirely lost my mind.

What has magic given you, how can you repay it, what can you give back?

The questions from that blasted book wouldn’t stop echoing in my mind, only not about magic—about Locke. About how everything good that had ever happened between us was because of him, while all I caused was chaos, trouble, and problems to solve.

Why would he want anything from me if he got nothing good in return?

I raised my hand to knock. Lowered it. Raised it. Lowered. Raised. About six times. 

My chest felt tight. This was a stupid idea.

Then I took a deep breath and thought, shit, if I’ve come this far, I’m not turning back now, and I knocked on the door.

No answer. Relief, first—maybe he wasn’t in. Then dread—maybe he wasn’t in.

Then the door opened, and there he was on the threshold, looking down at me questioningly.

“Um—” I managed.

“William?”

“Um. Good evening, Councillor.”

Slowly, one of his eyebrows rose. “Good evening, William.”

He kept staring. My fingers picked at a loose thread in my coat pocket.

“I… um. So…” Just say it. “I did something.”

His eyes narrowed. Head tilted. Suspicion sharpened his face.

Oh, shit.

“What,” he asked softly, “did you do?”

“I—no! Not like that. Nothing bad!” I waved my hands wildly. “Why do you have to assume the worst immediately?” I crossed my hands, the weight suddenly pressing heavy and sullen on my chest. “Fine. You know what? I found a dragon egg. Seven, actually. They’re about to hatch, and I’m going to raise seven baby dragons in my room, and you’re not allowed anywhere near them. I don’t care if they learn to breathe fire and the whole Sanctum burns down. Honestly, it’s about time this place went up in flames. I was so stupid to come here. I’ll just—”

I spun toward the stairs, but Locke caught my elbow, pulling me back.

“No!” I yelped, flustered. “Let go. This was stupid, I shouldn’t have—”

“Will.” His voice, low and steady,  brushed my ear, pulling me close to his body. I froze. “Let’s talk about this.”

“No.” I grumbled, but stayed still.

“Are there really dragon eggs in your room?”

A small huff. “No.”

“Anywhere else in the Sanctum?”

“…Not that I know of.”

A quiet chuckle. “Then why don’t you tell me what you actually did?”

Heat rushed to my face. We were standing too close; I could feel the warmth of his body, his fingers around my elbow, his breath against my hair.

“I just…” I swallowed, looked away. “I did something. For you. Something I thought you might like. But it’s stupid.” I tugged at my arm. “I will just leave—”

“No.” One word. Final.

I flushed even deeper.

“But—”

He waited. 

I glared at him, but of course I was the first to turn away. I could see his smirk, though.

I rolled my eyes. “Nothing.”

He set one hand on my shoulder, gentle, steadying. “Where is this thing you did?”

“You… might not like it.”

His hand stroked up from my shoulder to my chin, turning my face gently towards him. “I shouldn’t have assumed the worst,” he said quietly. He sounded soft now; almost careful. “That wasn’t fair, and I’m sorry, Will. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

I blinked, still unsure.

“Will you show me?” he added, cradling my face into his fingers.

I bit my lip. Locke’s fingers slid from my face to my jaw.

“I’m curious what you have made,” he said.

I sighed. “All right. But you have to promise to tell me if you hate it. And also, if you do hate it, we act like it never happened. And if you hate it—”

“Let’s assume I won’t hate it, all right?” Locke said.

Another huff. “Fine. You’ll probably need your coat.”

Locke followed quietly as we walked through the long corridors of the Sanctum, up a long staircase, through a narrow passage, up another flight of stairs, and across an upper courtyard. The corridor we reached was narrow, dusty, and deserted.

When I opened the window and lifted my foot onto the sill, Locke made a surprised noise. I didn’t pay him any mind; I climbed onto the edge, moving toward the junction of two steep rooftops, then stepped along the tiles toward the old stone walkway that crisscrossed the Sanctum’s rooftops.

I have to admit, Locke, despite his love for rules and order, followed. He frowned and gave me a disapproving look, but he followed.

We went along the walkway, up a small set of stairs, around a few chimneys, and then climbed a narrow ladder onto a flat little section. Walls rose on two sides; empty, long-unused towers.

I had spread out the large blanket I’d borrowed from Sol in the centre of the platform. In the basket were simple foods from the kitchen: cheese, fruits, apple pie, scones. Wine and two glasses. A small box of chocolates I’d won from Gavin in a wager. A few soft cushions to sit on.

Locke followed cautiously, sidling along the tower wall. He looked at me in surprise.

“A picnic?”

I swallowed, shifting nervously from foot to foot. “I… I thought you might like it. I just, I wanted to… I mean, I hoped it would be… all right.”

I didn’t dare look at him, but his voice sounded gentle when he spoke:

“It’s wonderful,” he said softly. “Really. Thank you for doing this.”

I swallowed hard.

There was silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Locke sat cross-legged, and I lay beside him, wrapped in my coat, my head resting on his knee while he fed me pieces of apple.

“You… you’re not… mad about the roof, are you?” I asked.

Locke let out a deep sigh. His finger lingered on my lower lip after placing another piece of apple in my mouth. “I’m not happy that you are up here regularly,” he finally sighed. “It’s not safe. But I suppose by now you have realised you won’t get into trouble because of it.”

The wind was turning cooler. The apple was finished, and I sat up so we could drink the wine. Locke twined his own scarf around me, chiding me for not wearing mine. I rolled my eyes but didn’t argue—the scarf was soft and warm, wrapping around me like an embrace.

Then we talked about the Sanctum, about how empty it was, and about what the surrounding towers had been used for in the past. We talked about the city around the Sanctum, the tall rooftops rising in the distance, and I told him about the rooftops I had loved looking at as a child from the palace roof.

“There just aren’t mountains that tall over there,” I said. “There are, just farther away. But none of them have a shape as cool as that one, the one that  looks like a horse’s head.”

“A horse’s head?” Locke asked, and soon I was standing on the edge of the platform, pointing and explaining so he could see the horse’s ears and the long mane in the curve of the mountain.

Locke tilted his head sceptically.

With a theatrical sigh, I sat down on the edge, letting my legs dangle, staring out toward the mountains as the setting sun painted the sky around us a deep crimson.

There was silence, and the weight pressing on my chest felt maybe a little lighter.

“Will,” Locke said slowly. “How big is the drop in front of you?”

“Why?” I leaned forward slightly to get a better look. Below the edge was a small inner courtyard, long-unused greenhouses overtaken by moss and ivy. “Five floors? Maybe six?”

“Step away from it.”

I looked back in surprise. Locke was suddenly standing beside the blanket, and not only had his voice turned sharply stern, his eyes were shooting daggers too as he glared at me.

“What?” I asked, laughing.

Locke took a single step toward me.

“Step away from the edge.”

“But—”

“Now.”

“Why?”

“You shouldn’t make me say it twice, William.”

“I thought you liked the sound of your own voice.”

“William.”

I rolled my eyes and muttered something rude, but I stood up. Locke stepped closer, grabbed me by the arm, and pulled me beside him onto the blanket. I let out a surprised cry as he spun me around, holding me close with one hand and giving my bottom a sharp slap with the other.

“Hey! Stop!” I squealed, wriggling uselessly as Locke’s arm locked me in place. The hem of my coat was shoved up around my waist, and his palm came down in quick succession before I could even form a coherent protest.

I burst into nervous laughter. “Oh, come on now—ow, that hurts!”

“We do not sit on the ledges five storeys up,” Locke said, another smack punctuating his words.

I kicked at the air, twisting to glare at him, but I couldn’t stop the grin spreading across my face. “You are afraid of heights!” I shouted.

His grip tightened around my waist. Smack. “I am careful and sensible.”

“Yeah, sure,” I giggled, breathless, trying to twist out of his hold. “You nearly fainted just watching me sit there. Just admit—ow! This is completely unusual and unfair and—”

“Silence.”

I bit my lip as the faint tingling began to turn into pain.

“You do realise that just because you are afraid of heights, it doesn’t mean I’m going to tumble off?”

Smack, smack, smack.

“Sit down,” Locke growled at me, letting go as he gestured towards the blanket.

“That wasn’t very nice,” I muttered as I sat down.

“What wouldn’t be nice is if you tumbled off the edge,” Locke grumbled as he sat down too.

I squinted at the rooftop’s edge. With a sigh, Locke pulled me closer, winding the scarf more snugly around my neck.

I was half-lying in his lap as we watched the sun finally sink behind the mountains.

The bathroom was thick with steam; the air was warm and damp, and the floor wet from the spilled water. Locke grabbed my upper arm with a disapproving look when I slipped.

“Why are you looking at me like it’s my fault the floor’s wet?” I grumbled, as he wrapped the large, fluffy towel around me.

“You were the one squirming around in the full bathtub,” Locke replied.

“You made me do it,” I shot back, blushing slightly.

Locke didn’t respond, just began to dry my arms and back. I breathed in deeply the scent of lavender and lemongrass in the air, letting him towel me off.

When I reached for my nightshirt, he stopped my hand.

“You won’t need that.”

I felt heat rush to my face. The steam slipped out the bathroom door as Locke took my wrist and led me into the bedroom. I shivered, partly from the cool air, partly from entirely different feelings. With a quick flick of his hand, Locke lit the fireplace while steering me towards the bed.

“Lie down in the middle,” he said softly. “On your back.”

My heart pounded in my throat as I clambered among the pillows.

“This bed’s really high,” I remarked. “Aren’t you afraid?”

Locke gave me a flat look from the corner of his eye. He was standing by the dresser, searching for something in the top drawer.

“I asked you to lie down,” he said as he turned back to me. His voice was gentle, but there was a sharp edge to it, a reminder that I wasn’t exactly obeying him.

This made my stomach flip a little.

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” I muttered as I crawled to the centre of the bed. “Lots of people are scared of rooftops. There’s the height. The chimney smoke. Those terrifying, dreaded roof tiles…”

Locke stood by the bed, holding up a narrow piece of black fabric in one hand.

“Take off that pillow.”

I glanced at the pillow I had sneaked upon my lap—being completely naked—and did nothing. I could feel my face burn.

I didn’t move.

Locke didn’t move.

I gritted my teeth, knowing Locke would hold out much longer in the silence.

“It’s a very nice little pillow,” I mumbled. “It could still come in handy if you fall from somewhere high… so you land on something soft…”

Locke’s eyes narrowed.

In the next moment I was flipped onto my stomach, the pillow tumbling to the floor, and Locke’s palm cracked against my backside with a sharp, decisive slap.

I yelped into the blankets.

Another smack landed, harder this time, and I kicked my leg against the mattress. “Ow! What did I even do?”

“Nothing,” said Locke, clapping his palm down again.

“Then what—”

“Nothing,” repeated Locke more firmly, “Even though I asked you to move the pillow.”

I buried my face in the sheets, squealing at each smack. “You can’t just—ow—do this every time you’re cross with me!”

 

“Do you think so?” Locke asked, his voice calm and a bit too amused for my liking. 

“Yes,” I grumbled, my voice coming out muffled into the blankets as another sharp slap landed. I kicked again, half-heartedly, my protests turning into nervous laughter.

“Keep still,” Locke said, pressing his hand firmly against my lower back. Another quick, sharp swat followed, then another, until my wriggling turned into something more mellow, something more subdued.

A few more resounding smacks landed, and then he let his hand rest on my tingling skin.

“I would suggest you watch your tone when speaking to me,” Locke said in the settling silence.

I drew in shallow, uneven breaths, but lifted my head from the pillow. “You could admit that you’re only upset because I pointed out that you’re terrified of the ridiculous heights of this bed…”

There was no answer; only the faintest shift of his hand as he reached for something beside him.

“Lift your head a bit,” he said. 

I twisted my neck back. He was holding that black strip of fabric. Locke leaned over, and in a quick movement, the blindfold was tied securely over my eyes.

It was soft against my skin, wide and dark enough to cut off all the light. I shivered, my breathing quickening a bit.

“Turn over,” His voice was soft but commanding. A hand guided me onto my back, making my skin tingle from the contact. I swallowed, painfully aware how naked, how exposed I was. Locke’s hand brushed against my shoulder.

I blinked against the darkness. 

“Spread your knees.”

His voice was calm and unyielding as his fingers traced small circles on my shoulder. I kept my hands clumsily in front of myself, wringing my fingers. 

“Are you sure–”
“Now.”

My face flamed as I obeyed. 

Locke’s fingers ran up on my neck, caressing the sensitive skin behind my ear. “Good,” he murmured. “Hands flat on the mattress.”

“What–” I had to clear my throat. “What are you going to do?” 

His fingers slid lower, over my throat, down my chest, tracing the line of my ribs, slow and unhurried. I felt the mattress dip as he shifted.

Locke leaned closer, his breath brushing over my ear. “I’m going to make you feel very good,” he murmured, his fingers tightening against my waist. “Well…if you behave.”

His hands slid along my thigh, and even this little touch felt too much, all of my nerves alive.

I made some choked noise when his fingertips grazed my cock. 

“You will lie still,” murmured Locke. “You will keep your knees spread.”

I whimpered as his fingers glided up, then down, tracing my skin with precise, deliberate pressure.

“Hands on the bed,” he whispered. I trembled, sinking my fingers into the sheets. “Good. Very good. Keep them there.”

I felt myself begin to harden between his fingers, and I instinctively tried to turn, to hide my face in a pillow.

Locke reached over and tossed the pillow aside. “No,” he said. His voice was soft and velvety, yet firm. “I want to see your face. Hear your voice.” I squeezed my eyes shut as his fingers wrapped around me. “Watching you hold yourself open obediently. Watching you tremble. Watching you beg.”

“I do not beg,” I grunted. My voice already sounded raw, thick. Defiant—but mostly helpless.

“Oh, darling,” Locke murmured, the words curling around me softly. “Perhaps not yet.”

Then his mouth was around my cock.

I froze. It was hot and wet and strange; then he moved, and suddenly I was gasping for air, tilting my hips toward him at the same time as I tried to twist away; raising my hand and burying my mouth against my forearm.

Locke’s hand pushed my hips deep into the mattress. The heat vanished with a slow movement, and I moaned again, kicking the bed with my heel.

“Put your hand down,” he said softly.

“But…”

“Put your hand down. I want to see your face.”

I gasped for air as I slowly lowered my hand. I couldn’t see him; I could feel him close, feel his breath, but I had no way of knowing what would happen—

“Has anyone ever done this to you?” Locke asked quietly.

I didn’t answer. I turned my face away, every muscle in my legs tensing, my fingers gripping the rumpled sheets tightly.

I could feel the warmth of Locke’s body as he drew closer. His fingers slid under my jaw, tilting my head towards him.

“Has anyone ever done this to you, William?”

A quiet, helpless moan. Then I shook my head.

There was silence. Locke didn’t respond for so long that the tight, hot sensation in my stomach almost began to turn into something colder, something more anxious; then he leaned down and kissed me.

I moaned into his mouth.

I was panting when he pulled back, his fingers gliding down my body before pausing at my hipbones. I breathed in short, ragged gasps, feeling every thread of the sheet beneath me, Locke’s burning touch, the heat of his body; the air around me both warm and cool, tingling—

I moaned—a small, embarrassed sound—as Locke hummed with satisfaction.

“Don’t move,” he whispered, and then his lips closed around me again, deeper and deeper, while I whined, trembling and shivering, trying to obey.

The night was long and burning, Locke close by, and my thoughts were—finally, finally, finally—almost silent.

Notes:

Please let me know what you think ^^

Also, there’s a part 2 now! Just 2 short stories for now, but I plan to add a few more.

Chapter 55: Storm

Summary:

Another family dinner.

Notes:

We are starting the finale!
eeeeeek I'm so excited

I really did want to read Ilara’s letter, I honestly did. It was just that it arrived right after breakfast, and I had to dash back to my room to fetch my books for Councillor Verdance’s class; then the letter got left inside a book on the freshwater wildlife of temperate climates, where I only found it a week later—by which time Ilara had turned up at the Sanctum and demanded to know why I hadn’t replied to her when she was asking urgent questions.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I stammered.

Ilara put her hands on her hips and stepped forward, forcing me to retreat further into my room. She really didn’t need to be wearing her full uniform just to visit me. When we were children, Ilara had been fun and playful—never this threatening.

“I asked you to reply within three days,” she said, letting her gaze sweep around the room before settling on me again. “You can’t disappear on us again, Vil.”

I swallowed hard and, for lack of anything better, let my own eyes wander around the room, just to avoid meeting hers. Since early morning, a steady, heavy rain had been falling outside, draping the world in greyness and gloom. In the distance, thunder rumbled softly.

“Mother’s been… crying sometimes, again,” she added softly.

“I…” Suddenly I had no idea what to do with my hands. I clasped my fingers together, then unclasped them, then smoothed down my shirt. “I’m fine. Mother was here not that long ago, she could see that I’m still alive. And anyway, what’s she so worried about? I’ve already died once, the second time couldn’t possibly be that terrible…”

Ilara’s expression darkened. She looked far more like a commander of the royal guard now than my sister. Then she let out a sharp sigh, rolled her eyes, crossed the room in two strides, and pulled me into such a tight embrace I thought my ribs might crack.

“Never,” she growled, “never, ever joke about something like that.”

“Mpfh,” I grumbled into her shoulder. “All right, all right, let me go!”

“Promise me,” she said, drawing back but keeping her hands on my shoulders.

“Fine,” I muttered. “I promise.”

Ilara grinned. “Excellent. Now, pack.”

I frowned, then raised my eyebrows, then stared at her in confusion. “What?”

“I’ve invited you to dinner,” Ilara replied cheerfully. “So get your things. We’re going.”

I laughed. “It’s not that simple. Ilara, I can’t just—”

“Oh, don’t worry.” She strode to the wardrobe and flung open its doors as if she meant to help me pack. When a heap of crumpled clothes tumbled onto her feet, she seemed to think better of it and shut the doors again. “I spoke with your Councillor. Everything’s sorted. I invited him to dinner as well.”

“And who said I even wanted to go to any sort of—”

“Me,” Ilara said with a shrug. “Come on, your master said you’ll walk me back to the entrance, he’ll already be waiting for us there, and we can leave immediately. The court mage led me here, but he went off to discuss something with the Council. This place is like a maze.”

“Ilara, I can’t travel with Auric Dust.”

Ilara waved a dismissive hand. “Just pack. I’ve arranged everything. This is an exceptional case.”

I frowned. “Why on earth would dinner be an exceptional case?”

With a grin, Ilara slung an arm around my shoulders and ruffled my hair with her other hand. “Because you’re desperately missing your family. You’re dying of loneliness.”

I kept shaking my head. “The Council decided I’m not allowed to use Auric Dust. Locke can’t overrule that.” I frowned again, while Ilara only kept grinning. “What the hell—you didn’t talk to the Council too, did you?” I asked in disbelief.

“I talked to everyone I needed to,” she said with another shrug. I gaped at her, jaw hanging. “Now pack up, and get changed, please, because this shirt looks like you have slept in it. I’ll be waiting outside. Hurry up!”

The door closed behind her, and I was left alone, blinking in astonishment at the empty space where my sister had just stood.

 

The departure was a whirlwind of chaos. I was trying to get into clean clothes, but had barely got as far as attempting to find a washed, unrumpled shirt when Ilara was already knocking impatiently at my door, urging me to hurry or we’d be late.

Then we were rushing through the Sanctum. I was still trying to fix my hair and smooth a crease on my sleeve, my boots slipping on the polished stone while Ilara somehow managed to stride as if she were leading a battalion—even if she happened to be heading in entirely the wrong direction through the endless labyrinth of corridors and staircases. 

And then, on one of the first-storey corridors of the Sanctum—which was so empty at any other time—we ran straight into Gavin and Tessa. They were bent over an open book, apparently deep in discussion about some magical wards, when we collided.

Tessa was kind and polite. Gavin just stared, mouth slightly open, ears flushing red, until the book slipped from his hands and landed on the floor with a loud thump. He gathered it up awkwardly, flustered and scrambling, then gave Ilara an extravagant, sweeping bow so exaggerated he nearly lost his balance.

Ilara wasn’t particularly fazed. “You’re apprentices as well?” she asked.

“Yes, yes,” Gavin nodded eagerly. “The best. Will’s friends. We’re such good friends he definitely won’t mind if—”

“I’ll mind,” I snapped.

“What Gavin means,” Tessa said smoothly, “is that we study together.”

Ilara smiled at Tessa in a way she hadn’t smiled at me at all; warm, easy, curious. “And what do you study?”

Tessa told her about the protective wards she was working on, defensive barriers and astral lines of safety. Gavin, meanwhile, was eyeing me as though I’d betrayed him. I shrugged.

“Of course, we study plenty of other things too,” Tessa added at last. “I’m in my fifth year. But I’m specialising in defensive magic.”

“I study all sorts of useful things, too” Gavin put in.

Ilara gave him a polite smile—the kind, I thought, that she probably gave overeager recruits she had no intention of ever promoting. Then her gaze flicked back to Tessa. “Well. If we’re ever under siege, I’ll know who to ask for help.”

“Seriously?” I cut in, rolling my eyes as I pushed my sister further down the corridor. “You were just nagging me that we’d be late!”

Ilara shrugged, flashed Tessa one last smile over her shoulder, and let me steer her along.

Locke was waiting for us in the entrance hall, before the double doors that led out to the enchanted garden. He was as elegant as ever: clothes immaculate, back straight, face unreadable.

Then he looked me over and announced that I was going nowhere without a winter cloak.

“You’re joking, right?” I asked.

“No. It’s storming.”

“I’m not going back for it,” I said flatly.

In the end, I went back for the cloak. Ilara—the traitor—stood by Locke’s side. Locke also insisted that I leave my books in the Sanctum, which sparked yet another argument that dragged on for several minutes. I stomped back to my room, grumbling, considering just staying put and letting them wait for me in the entrance hall for all eternity.

“When did you take the Auric Elixir, your highness?” Locke asked when I finally dragged my feet back to them.

“Shortly before we left,” Ilara replied. “Maybe two, three hours ago.”

“It would be wise to consider another dose, for your safety, then.”

Ilara produced a small vial from her coat, containing a thick, golden liquid; since she wasn’t a magician, she wouldn’t have been able to use the Auric Dust on her own. These substances were insanely expensive—but, after all, Ilara was royalty.

I reminded myself that I was, too.

At least, while I grumbled inwardly about that, I didn’t think about what we were actually preparing for: Auric Dust, family, dinner.

It wasn’t until we were already outside of the Citadel, standing beneath the arcade lined with tall columns, that I froze, trembling slightly, as Locke reached towards my forehead with the Auric Dust, and I instinctively took a step back, forgetting to act as if the situation didn’t affect me at all.

“You are not alone this time,” murmured Locke. “And you will use it properly. I will guide you.”

I shook my head. Memories of darkness, suffocation, and falling wrapped around me like a deadly blanket.

The Dusk in the palace gardens.

My magic.

The fire.

Locke’s fingers closed around my wrist, warm and steady. “You will be safe,” he said. His other hand’s thumb brushed along my forehead, smearing the golden, glittering dust. “I will take care of you.”

“Will it–” I swallowed hard. “Will it even work, like this, with…” I glanced at the armbands.

“Yes,” Locke said firmly. “Your magic is within you.”

Then Locke politely extended his arm to Ilara, took my trembling hand, and I felt the gentle tug of the Auric Dust in my chest before I had a chance to think about anything else.

 

Ilara drew deep breaths, one hand resting on her stomach, as we arrived at the palace entrance. The guards hurried to open the gate, their cloaks already plastered to their shoulders with rain.

“Couldn’t the magicians have worked out some way so this doesn’t make you so nauseous?” Ilara murmured, squinting up at the sky as she pulled her hood over her head.

“My nose has frozen solid,” I replied, touching my face. “Look, it’s ice-cold… it’s going to fall off any second, damn it…”

Locke snorted. Ilara touched my nose, then yanked her finger back as if the cold had burned her. She was still laughing as she sent the guards ahead into the palace to announce our arrival.

The palace was vast, tall, and beautiful, as always—its pale walls streaked with rainwater, the banners along its towers whipping and snapping under the gathering wind. My stomach tightened slightly as I let my eyes roam over the intimidatingly familiar yet half-forgotten lines of stone walls, towers, windows, and balconies.

The garden was in full bloom. Apple trees were covered in soft white and pale pink blossoms. Birches had delicate, bright-green new leaves, now shivering under the rain. The lawn shone a vivid green, the hedges trimmed into their usual precise shapes. Fountains gurgled and banners fluttered atop pergolas in deep green and gold colours. The air was heavy with the scent of wet earth and damp stone.

Ilara strode ahead, confident and unhesitant. I walked a little behind, the stone crunching under my boots, trying to match her pace while keeping my hands deep in my coat pockets. Thunder growled again, closer this time. Locke’s presence beside me was warm and steady, yet it still felt hard to breathe. I swallowed hard, blinking fast.

The palace doors opened quietly, and from that moment on, there were guards and people and lights and sounds everywhere, and the music was already drifting from the great dining hall.

Ilara, as it turned out, understood “dinner” to mean a whole fucking family dinner.

Greetings, slightly too long hugs, and just too much noise and people everywhere. The servants took our rain-soaked cloaks to be dried. Mother hugged me, then asked me a thousand questions about whether I was well, then hugged me again, then kept casting worried glances towards me. The King looked at me for a moment as if I’d done something wrong, and I just lowered my eyes, hardly daring to look up, murmuring a polite greeting. But then he was kind and cheerful, and I think he was genuinely glad I was there. 

Dinner was served. My brother, the crown prince Eldric, asked about my studies in a low, serious voice, as if he knew anything about the world of magical scholarship. Children ran around the table in a quite unroyal fashion. Liora briefly placed her hand on my forearm, a light and warm touch.

There was roasted pheasant stuffed with fragrant herbs, cranberries, and nuts. Roasted potatoes with crispy, golden skin. Glazed carrots, steamed vegetables with almonds and a light vinaigrette, and platters of assorted cheeses with honeycomb.

Rain tapped steadily against the high windows.

When Lander nudged Eldric out of the seat beside me, I felt a flicker of relief at first—until he sat down and kicked my leg under the table so hard that I dropped my fork, drawing far too many glances in our direction

“You didn’t answer my letter,” he said.

“Do you always have to hit me?” I exclaimed, rubbing the sore spot on my leg. “You didn’t even write me a letter.”

“Of course I did!” I leaned a bit away just before Lander decided to start another fight. “Three weeks ago! Don’t tell me you didn’t get it!”

I frowned. “You mean the one that just said I should come visit, or else you will beat me up?”

“I also said I miss you!”

“Oh, I’m absolutely terrified of your weak little nudges, Lander. At this rate, I’ll be dead by dessert. Though, I suppose that wouldn’t be anything new, would it?”

I yelped as Lander’s fist jabbed into my shoulder, hard. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Locke’s sharp glance directed at me.

Under the table, I kicked Lander’s shin with all my strength.

He grunted, grimacing in pain as he bent forward. His elbow slipped, sending the basket of fresh bread rolls tumbling towards the corner of the table. I lunged to save it, but my elbow struck a pitcher of fruit wine instead; for a moment, I watched it wobble, then it landed on the stone floor with a tremendous crash, exploding in deep crimson wine and tiny shards of porcelain.

A heavy silence fell over the table. 

Nobody moved. 

I felt my face flush bright red. Lander’s hand was still suspended in the air, clutching the single bread roll he had managed to catch.

Our father buried his face in his hands.

My mother’s eyes glistened with tears, and for some reason, she looked almost happy.

Locke’s face, of course, was unreadable.

Then one of Ruvan’s little sons laughed, grabbed a roll, and tossed it across the table.

A confused ripple of laughter. Ruvan snatched the next pastry from his son with horror, but at least the silence had been broken. Servants arrived to clean up the wine. Lander muttered a quiet apology, which I—reluctantly and very awkwardly—returned.

Lightning flickered briefly through the stained glass windows.

By the time dessert was served, the orchestra was playing softly again, and Eldric’s little daughter, Minna, was sitting in my lap, though I had no idea when or how she had gotten there. A small dog made of magical light bounced around on her knees, licking her face and my arms alike—I immediately recognised Locke’s handiwork.

Minna chattered about how, when she grew up, she would be queen and make it mandatory for everyone to have a puppy, and for the puppies to remain puppies forever.

“They can’t stay puppies forever,” interjected Ruvan’s bread-roll-tossing little son.

“I’ll fix that,” Minna shrugged. “Uncle Vil here is a magician. I’ll ask him to enchant them.”

“I heard he can’t really do magic at all,” said the bread-thrower.

“Not right now,” Minna shrugged. “But he will later. He can control fire, and if you won’t be a good subject, I’ll ask him to set you on fire properly.”

The boy stared at me with wide eyes, then ran away.

I made a choking noise. “That’s maybe not—”

Minna’s mother, Wren, stood up. “Perhaps it’s time to go to bed.”

Minna swung her legs to the side in my lap so she could turn to face me. “You’ll be my subject too,” she said. “You’ll be my favourite, but if you don’t obey, I’ll ask dear Councillor Locke to make you.”

I felt my face burn, and I avoided looking at anyone as Wren urged Minna down from my lap.

The dinner table gradually quieted as the children, one by one, returned to bed. Conversation turned to life in the palace. Aflin spoke about plans for the summer festival, Liora recounted their trip to the seaside, and Lander talked about the legendary swords he wanted to try.

Ilara told a story about a suspicious magical book that one of her guards had found in the cellar, and how they had to keep it under control until a magician arrived—nearly losing a shield, a bag of gold, and a hand in the process.

The embarrassing part began when I politely inquired whether the book could be seen anywhere.

This was a fucking royal dinner. With servants, velvet tablecloths, polished silver, steamed whole sterlets and the musicians playing quietly in the background. Even so, no one, absolutely no one stopped the events when my siblings launched into what they called “The Naughty Prince Chronicles.”

“Remember the time he switched the potion labels in the healing wing?” laughed Ilara, and the others snickered around us. Even Locke was smiling with amusement, and I tried to tear my eyes away from the way the light sphere’s dim light highlighted the line of his jaw.

“Oh, gods.” I slumped lower in my seat.

“That was dangerous, not funny,” Ruvan remarked. “The patient could’ve ended up poisoned.”

“It was a hair regrowth tonic,” I muttered. “Not medicine. And anyway, that old baron looked much better with blue hair.”

“You were a little child,” Ruvan grumbled. “Those vials were none of your business.”

“Not everyone had to be as boring as you,” I muttered.

“That’s nothing compared to the kitchen boy incident,” Eldric said, wiping the corner of his mouth with the napkin.

“No,” I replied. “I’m sure no one wants to hear about the kitchen boy incident.”

“It certainly captured my interest,” Locke said mildly.

I shot him my grumpiest glare, but he only smiled gently in return.

“He disguised himself,” Eldric said. I glared at him. Eldric, you were supposed to be the serious and boring, know-it-all crown prince. “Full apron, soot on his face. Served drinks during the ambassador’s feast… until he tripped and spilled wine all over the Chancellor of Brasenmere.”

“Everyone makes mistakes,” I muttered, throwing my head back, hiding my face in my hands.

I heard Locke chuckle softly. “Sounds like you had an eventful childhood in the palace,” he murmured.

“Oh, he was constantly complaining of boredom,” Lander said, a little too loudly.

“We always had to hunt for him because he skipped lessons and disappeared,” added Aflin. “He complained that Lander bored him,” he added, glancing at Lander.

“He did,” I said, sitting upright. “Have you ever tried to share a lesson with him? One sum problem took him an hour.”

“I was thorough,” Lander said stiffly.

“You were slow as a snail,” I replied. “The tutor aged five years waiting for you to subtract fractions.”

Quiet laughter. Servants brought small pastries decorated with flower petals.

“Wait,” Ilara said, bright-eyed, “has anyone told the place card story yet?”

I groaned—but went still for a moment. Had these stories already been told at dinners in the past years?

“The banquet,” my mother said, shaking her head. Her eyes sparkled.

“He switched every name card at the formal dinner,” Ilara declared. “The newly divorced Lady Villein ended up beside her ex-husband. Baron Pohin spent the evening between two nobles who had been feuding over some tiny plot of land for decades.”

“It was a political experiment,” I muttered.

“Don’t forget Lord Uttenton,” added Aflin. “He spent the whole night complaining he couldn’t sit beside his new fiancée, who—”

“That ended well,” I cut in. “Lord Uttenton was rude and violent, and his fiancée has been happily married ever since to that far better fellow I seated beside her.”

Ilara nodded in agreement. Ruvan shook his head disapprovingly, but even Eldric laughed.

Outside, thunder rumbled again, and lightning briefly illuminated the otherwise dark windows. The wind howled so loudly that it could be heard over the music.

Then my father set down his goblet.

The hall fell silent. 

“You have all missed the best one,” he said. His gaze narrowed as he scrutinised us, and although his face was stern and regal as always, a hint of amusement crept into his voice.

I stiffened. “Don’t.”

Locke’s eyes cut to me.

My father’s smile widened. “The menagerie ball.”

“No. Please.”

“How old was he exactly?” he turned to mother.

“Eight,” she said. “Just before his ninth birthday.”

I groaned aloud. “I hate this story.”

“Which makes it all the better,” father nodded. “We hosted the Baroness of Vellar and her beast tamers. Exotic animals, falcons, tigers, trained monkeys…”

“And a dragon,” Lander added cheerfully. “Don’t forget the dragon.”

“Vil released them all.”

I gulped. “I was… curious.”

“You unlatched every cage and snuck away before the guests arrived.”

There was laughter, embarrassing but warm and familiar too.

“The peacock was sitting on the throne,” father said. “The parrots were shrieking, and the baby dragon was flapping in the fountain, trying to fry the lily pads.”

“They weren’t real flames,” I said, shooting my father a careful scowl. “And besides, you shouldn’t have reprimanded me in front of the guests.”

“Arvil,” Father sighed. “The guests reached the garden when you were trying to get the dragon out of the fountain, and ended up falling in yourself.”

Lander clutched his stomach from laughing. Ilara poured wine. Mother dabbed at her eyes.

Locke was laughing too.

“This isn’t funny,” I muttered, glancing at Locke. “I was confined to my  quarters for a fortnight. A fortnight! Do you know how long that felt? How completely unjust–”

Ruvan snorted. “A peacock on the throne, Vil.”

“And a dragon in the fountain!” Lander was laughing so hard that tears spilled from his eyes.

“I spent two whole weeks staring at the walls,” I growled, “thinking about how my dragon would have made the perfect pet.”

Ilara nearly spit out her wine from laughing. 

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Maybe I should’ve stayed dead,” I said, my voice loud and clear enough for everyone to hear. “Instead of sitting here listening to all of your shitty accusations.”

The laughter choked out in an instant. Ilara’s goblet clinked against the table a little too loudly. The fork froze mid-motion in Liora’s hand.

Father’s gaze was murderous.

Mum looked heartbroken.

Locke’s face, yet again, was unreadable.

Silence burnt painfully, deep down in my chest. 

“I–” my voice was small and pleading. “I didn’t mean–”

And then the world ripped apart.

A crack of thunder, so loud my ears rang and my bones shook.

A bolt of blinding white-blue light bursting above us.

The stained-glass windows shattered with a deafening crash, and shards rained down, the wind howling through the broken panes, carrying sheets of rain. The chandelier groaned as the magical lights flickered and went out.

Chairs skidded back. The hall was lit only by flashes of lightning as guards poured in, boots pounding all around us, and Locke was already on his feet, hand raised to cast a spell.

Someone screamed—a single, long scream that went on and on, high and piercing. The floor shook beneath my feet, the sky trembling, thunder rolling and rolling around us.

Shards of glass. Falling timber. More screams. Another flash lit the hall, so bright the world was only outlines, a jagged sketch of terror—and then the roof came crashing down on us.

Notes:

I love your comments, you are all so amazing ❤️

Chapter 56: William, darling

Summary:

This is mostly pure chaos.

Notes:

I guess it's not a light chapter, guys.

(Posting this now, before I end up rewriting it ten more times.)

Chaos.

The air was thick with dust, filling my nose, making me cough. I ran across the hall, wet stone slipping under my boots, stumbling over debris, pushing aside overturned chairs, trampling shards of the chandelier, ducking under partially fallen beams. Someone lay unconscious on the floor ahead of me—a guard’s uniform. Screams, muffled and sharp, echoed all around. Lightning flashed again and again, white and raw, illuminating the hall with a flickering light: shadows and outlines of fallen beams, broken bricks, shattered glass. A small part of the roof still held, another small part was maybe held by magic—but a significant part lay scattered around us. On us.

Crashing my mother beneath.

I clambered up a pile of splintered beams. The rain soaked me through, plastered my hair to my face, dripped into my eyes. My ears rang, my vision blurred, blood ran down my arm. I heard shouting, heard orders being barked—but for some reason, no one had spelled this pile of rubble away yet, no one had rescued my mother…

I climbed higher and higher over the wreckage, praying the beams would hold, praying I’d make it through the gaps to her.

Then a hand grabbed my shirt and yanked me back.

“Stay put,” Locke said. He was drenched too, scratches streaking one side of his face, but otherwise seemed unharmed. For a moment, I wanted nothing more than to throw myself into his arms.

“Do something!” I screamed into the thunder.

“It’s a magical storm,” Locke said, his voice raw and strained, yet somehow almost calm. “I can’t. The guards are working on clearing the area.”

I stared at him, bewildered, helpless, lost. My heart pounded wildly; water dripped from my hair; the raging wind was cold and sharp. The world was pitch black, and only in the flashes of lightning could I see Locke’s dark, worried eyes before me. The sky roared continuously, a deep, rolling, all-consuming rumble.

Then, as another bolt of lightning crashed through the sky, I wrenched my wrist free from Locke’s fingers and threw myself back onto the heap of beams, bricks, and stones. Locke shouted my name. I ignored him, climbing higher, reaching, my hands slick, splinters biting into my palms—

The world went white. Harrowing pain shot through me as lightning slammed into my outstretched hand, rain hissing on my skin, the world turning into a thundering, screaming blur… and the ground vanished beneath my feet.

 

***

 

My eyes were closed.

The world was still blindingly white. 

My ears rang painfully, deafeningly loud.

Then the pain reached my consciousness—searing through every muscle, as if my bones had been shattered and set on fire at the same time. My limbs jerked violently; my lungs spasmed, and I tried to gasp for air, but my throat refused to obey.

Rain poured down on me, cold and sharp, biting into my scorched skin. The smell of ozone filled my nose, metallic, choking, mixing with the wet rot of splintered wood and dust. I tried to open my eyes, but could only see blurry patches in the brilliant flashes of lightning. My skin was burning. Tingling. Numb.

A voice, talking to me. “...breathe. Just…” It was muffled, dull, barely cutting over the roar. “...you have to…” I struggled to breathe. Hands were on my chest, on my face, brushing hair out of my eyes. “I’m so sorry.” Locke’s voice. Locke’s hands, hovering over me. “William, darling, I’m so sorry, but you need to try to focus. Breathe. You need to calm down. Please, try to breathe.” He sounded impossibly far away.

I gasped. Rain fell into my eyes. Locke spoke, and soon someone held a cloak over me, shielding me from the downpour. The lightning outlined Locke’s figure, crouching next to me, soaked and bloody. My muscles were stiff, every nerve screaming, my heart hammering in irregular, terrifying beats.

The noise was overwhelming. The roaring thunder. The shouting. The whistling, screaming wind. The magic coursing through my veins, humming softly, like—

Magic.

“It’s all right,” Locke said, raising his voice above the chaos. “Will, it’s all right—”

Trembling, I lifted my arm. The Kowlanow armband was where it had always been—then it fell. Torn into ragged, melted pieces.

I had no strength to lift my other arm, but I could feel the magic flowing through me without restraint. A roaring, molten river flooding my veins. It pressed, squeezed, burned, and hummed. Free. Effortless. 

Uncontrolled.

The storm raged above, lightning flashing, wind screaming, the shattered roof creaking and cracking. I could smell smoke, wet wood, ozone, fear, blood. Around me came muffled screams, glass crunching underfoot, someone coughing, someone shouting orders in the background.

My heart hammered wildly in my chest. My muscles twitched. 

The terrible freedom. The absence of emptiness. The overwhelming magic, the power…

The most sickening fear of all.

“No,” I barely managed to speak. “No, n– no, no. Do– do something. Please—”

Locke knelt beside me, hands hovering, murmuring incantations. Only then did I notice the rest of the pain: cuts from splintered wood, bruises forming across my chest, one sharp ache in my leg that refused to fade. Locke wove spell after spell over me, drawing sigils, murmuring incantations—but nothing happened. His brows knit in frustration; his face tightened.

He slammed his fist against the wet stone.

“I can’t. The storm…” His voice cracked. Desperation bled through the commanding tone. “Will, I can’t heal you now. You have to focus. Breathe.” He leaned over me, his face filling the space that my blurred vision could manage. “Come on. Breathe. In. Out. Come on.”

“The… the armbands,” I groaned, lifting my wrist toward him.

“Don’t speak. Just breathe. Now, Will. In. Come on.”

“Please…”

“The armbands can’t be used,” he ground out through his teeth, sitting back on his knees, rubbing his temple. His hands returned to my shoulder, but the touch was careful, gentle, as if even my shoulder was injured and he dared not press too hard. “Focus on your breathing. You must. Inhale. Come on, Will, you must try. Exhale.”

I wanted to say I can’t, but my throat clenched, and I only whined.

“I know it hurts,” Locke groaned, cradling my face in his hands. “I know, Will. You’re doing so well. Just breathe.”

“Please,” I managed with difficulty, gasping for air, thrashing. “Please, pl– please, please.”

“Breathe.”

“But—”

“Don’t argue now,” Locke said, almost laughing in his despair. “Just breathe. Come on. You have to calm down.”

I didn’t understand what was happening. Someone had brought a few lanterns, but their light was weak and dim. People ran past us, guards carried away the fallen pieces of the roof.

It was dark.

Time felt like it had stopped, then stretched, then snapped back in violent jerks.

Lightning cracked again, mirrored by the raw thrum of magic in my blood. The world tilted. Everything shook.

I had my magic.

I was magic.

I was power.

I was also fear, and fire, and storm.

Locke practically begged me to breathe.

The air was freezing and wet. Locke’s fingers were hot on my skin.

The shadows grew. My heart raced, then slowed.

Screams.

Panic.

Then, in the next flash of lightning, a dark figure appeared not far from us, tall and human-like. Blurred, but solid. Vibrating in and out of the shadows. Of existence.

In its too-long hand, it held a narrow sword. The black blade gleamed in the lightning.

My hand twitched, reaching toward Locke. My throat burned as I screamed, raw and jagged, leaving my chest hollow and my throat on fire.

Locke leaned over me, worried. Then he turned. Time seemed to slow as he rose.

He didn’t even have a chance to raise his hand to cast a spell. It wouldn’t have mattered. 

I watched, lying on the floor and unable to move, as the Dusk Knight’s blade pierced his chest.

Then I saw nothing else, because the Dusk enveloped me, and darkness fell over the world. 

 

***

 

Living shadows. Moving, slithering, vibrating, twisting around me, filling my ears with whispers, coiling tendrils around me, dragging my chest down into something cold and suffocating. The storm’s roar faded as pain flooded everything.

The Dusk flowed and shifted around me. Human-shaped but broken, flickering across the shadows, laughing, screaming, crying. It was hot and icy, thick and heavy, friendly, inviting, terrifying, nauseating.

I was nine years old, standing in the library, and the world around me burned. I ran down stairs I had no memory of, past people shrieking in panic, past burning curtains, across a carpet in flames, somehow still unharmed. I carved runes into my forearm with trembling hands; my blood ran, red and dark, dripping to the worn stones. I kept running, through the garden, out into the city. My home burned behind me, my life in flames, and I kept running, as far away as I could, my breathing ragged in the silence of the streets—farther and farther. Chaos and panic.

Icy tendrils dug into my mind, and I just lay there, rain striking my face, aching, and I let the Dusk fold me in.

I smeared Auric Dust on my face. I landed in the palace gardens. I landed in the marshlands, in the fire, in the chaos, in the terror of my own power. 

I never truly landed anywhere; I was lost in the dark for an eternity, hovering, numb and empty.

The phantom hound bit me, and I relived the echo of every suffering it had ever gathered.

The Lost Library’s darkness swallowed me whole, the walls echoing with voices that weren’t there.

Lysander’s pale eyes bored into me in my dream as his purple cloak fluttered behind him. I lay on the stone table beneath the library, my blood running into carved grooves in the stone while Lysander muttered curses over me and wove magic into my mind. I whimpered and screamed and thrashed, but the darkness slowly consumed my mind until nothing remained but fear and despair and hunger.

In the Sanctum they flogged me: the whip’s edge cut my spine, coiling around my ribs, and I should have been dead long ago, but somehow I still lived.

My mother vanished beneath the wreckage.

Locke lay in a pool of blood. His eyes were open, staring at me—silent, broken, dead.

I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. I tried to scream, but the Dusk swallowed it, twisting the sound into hissing whispers that crawled down my spine.

The Dusk Knight was solid and terrifying. His black cloak rippled like smoke; blood and black venom dripped from his sword. The blade’s edge was sharp as a nightmare.

When it spoke, its voice was both inside my head and all around me: “Do not resist.”

I wanted to. Something very deep inside me wanted to fight, to struggle, to howl. To run. To tell Locke to get up. To live.

But thoughts like that only tightened the Dusk around me, coiling, writhing, whispering with voices I couldn’t escape. You are weak. You are nothing. You cannot save them. You are one of us. Help us. Feed us. Together we will be unstoppable.

Locke was dead. Stabbed, lifeless, broken. Rain mixed with his blood.

The horror was unbearable.

My magic throbbed inside me, clawing for release. Fire flared, hot and uncontrollable, but the Dusk gently hushed it: not now. 

All my mistakes. Everything I had ever ruined or broken or undone. Every time I burned, fled, caused chaos and destruction and death. The Dusk pressed it all into my mind—colours and sounds and smells—screaming, shouting, pulsing, until the blood from my nose ran into my mouth and I choked, unable to move, unable to—

“Do not resist,” the Dusk Knight repeated softly.

I wanted to fight. My nails dug into the stone beneath me, shivers ran through my body, rain poured into my face. Only flashes of lightning cut through the darkness, illuminating the panic; the black vortex of the Dusk; the fear pressing in from all sides.

The Dusk had killed Locke.

My heart felt like it would burst from the fury consuming me. I could set the world on fire. I could rip apart every single one of the Dusk’s creatures, one by one, painfully. I could—

Suffocation.

The Dusk drove into my chest—tentacles, claws, darkness—and suddenly I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. My body burned and my skin froze at the same time. The world felt impossibly far away.

I slid through the shadows and I was no longer in the palace, but down in the city. My legs barely held me and blood was running down my arms. I ran. I ran as fast as I could.

It’s happening again—

Screams stretched into the night, long, drawn out, tormented. Buildings had collapsed. The river had broken its banks, flooding the streets. Trees lay across homes, crushing them. 

And in the background, behind me, the palace burned.

I couldn’t breathe. My lungs were full of ash– my lungs were ash. My chest rose and fell but nothing came. My throat was fire and magic and suffocation. 

The palace burned. Towers toppled.

The city was in ruins. Rain lashed down, the wind swept tiles from the roofs. People, drenched and bloody and injured, stared silently as the dead prince brought ruin again.

The palace burned, and I was screaming, but I was also silent.

I stumbled and fell; my knees cracked, my palms tore open. I cut my temple on the sharp corner of a cobblestone. Blood ran, mingling with the rainwater.

Faces, burning and melting before me. Their mouths moved: It’s your fault. It’s your fault. It's always your fault.

Faces. Mother, father, Eldric, Ilara, Lander. Locke, Locke, Locke, Locke.

Fire on my hands. Fire in my blood. Fire spilling out, crawling, devouring.

I wanted to stop—the fire, the Dusk, the storm, the thoughts—but I couldn’t.

My nails gouged into the cobblestone, shattering, leaving bloody streaks. I rolled onto my back, lying on the street’s cold stone, letting the rain fall into my face, and I dug the bloody, ragged stumps left by my nails into my chest, clawing, tearing skin.

Locke was dead.

Locke was dead.

Locke was—

His face in the fire.

His face in the rain.

His face, as the Dusk Knight’s sword pierced his chest.

Eyes open.

Empty.

I fell further. Into water, into fire, into ash.

The screams around me did not stop.

My fault.

My fault my fault my fault my fault—

“We can help,” said the Dusk Knight as he stood beside me. His voice was soft, velvety, smooth as silk. His black cloak billowed in the rain, and even though the raindrops blurred everything else together, he seemed more solid than ever. 

You killed him, I thought. I couldn’t speak. You killed him, you killed him, you killed him.

The Dusk’s tentacles gripped my chest hard, barely letting me draw a breath.

“You only have to stop resisting.”

You killed him.

The Knight glided closer. “Resistance hurts, doesn’t it?”

Rain was pouring, cloaking the world in grey and pain. Everything ached. Locke— 

I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe.

“We will look after you,” the Knight murmured.

I was lying on the ground, surrounded by storm and fire.

You can be yourself among us, hummed the Dusk, dragging its claws down my spine.

Rage. Unbridled, endless rage. I will kill you, I will kill you, I will kill you.

And the Dusk loved the rage, and it wound itself even tighter around my heart.

“You are the storm,” the Knight whispered. “You are the magic. You are the power.”

The Dusk’s tentacles sank into my mind. I clung to the rage with everything I had.

“Do not resist,” the Knight crooned.

Locke was gone.

The rage was burning, but the palace was burning too. 

I choked on a sob, lying still on the ground, weak and powerless and alone.

I let the rain fall over me.

Do not resist, sang the Dusk.

It was over.

I’m yours.

The fire inside me burned hotter, and I let it flow, let it mingle with the Dusk, let it become one with the shadows, the whispers, the screams, the memories, the anger, the grief. The Dusk curled into me, into my mind, into my body, and I let it. 

I welcomed it. 

“Do not resist,” the Dusk Knight purred. I nodded—and we were one.

We were the Dusk.

 

The shadows swallowed me whole.

I dissolved. Melted into the cracks between the stones, into the darkest slivers of night. 

I was everywhere at once.

I saw people hiding beneath beds as the storm tore through their homes. Pale faces glimmering in windows as the Dusk swept down the streets. Candles guttering out as the darkness took root. Mothers clutching their children in half-flooded, freezing cellars. Uprooted trees, shattered roofs. I saw a girl screaming for her father as the flood carried him away, and I felt it—her terror slicing into me as though it were my own.

The Dusk fed on it, and in that moment, I was the Dusk too.

I didn’t know what was happening. What I was. Where I began and where I ended. My veins burned with magic, too much magic, spilling out of me in violent surges. But it wasn’t fire, hot and scorching; it was shadow. Black, cold, endless, shuddering shadow.

My magic was powerful and free and infinite, familiar and safe.

The Dusk’s power was dark and twisted and rotten. Corrupted.

The shadows tore me apart.

I slipped from shadow to shadow. A burning barn, animals scattering into the night. A woman frozen, screaming soundlessly. A man on his knees, mind torn wide, forced to relive the night he watched his wife die. A child curled beneath a table, whimpering, hands clamped over her ears as lightning split the sky. The Dusk coiled into her, pressing fear deeper, deeper—until she collapsed, fainting, her head knocking on the floor. 

I tried to pull away, but the Dusk only tightened its grip.

A mother clutched her child in a flooding house—then the child melted, face sagging into shadow, eyes black pits. The mother screamed, a sound so sharp it drove knives into my ears. A man in the street clutching his broken leg flickered into Locke’s face—blood pouring from his temple, eyes glassy, lifeless. My stomach lurched, my body heaved, though I wasn’t sure I still had one.

One moment I was nine, running from the palace, and the next I realised that I was older now, and the palace was not burning this time.

The palace is not burning this time…!

Then, suddenly, the phantom hound’s bite.

Alone on the Lost Library floor, in pitch-darkness, certain I would die.

Beneath the library, one hundred and thirteen steps down, Lysander Langston doing his secret work.

Eyes pale as milk. Cloak whispering. Dark magic stitching through my brain, trapping me forever. A twisted experiment.

There is no fire now. The palace is not burning. I kept the fire within.

Then memories again. Auric Dust burning my skin.

Fire encircling me, without aim, without control.

I saw my mother crushed beneath rubble.

Saw Locke’s chest pierced by the Dusk Knight’s poisoned blade.

Then again, a flash of rage—then the Dusk curling tight, whispering. This is right. He never loved you. You are one of us. You belong.

Locke lay in the rain, his blood mixing with the water, slipping into cracks in the stone, washing away. His eyes stared, empty.

I vomited.

He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead. 

The Dusk pulled me deeper. He never wanted you. You were never his. He never loved you. Countless hands dragging me down, filling my lungs, my veins, my mind.

 

…Somewhere far off, a bird sang.

 

Notes:

Any thoughts? 👀

Chapter 57: It Was A Dark Night

It was a dark night. 

The Dusk’s claws dug into my skin, into my blood, into my thoughts.

The bird sang. It was a slow melody, quiet, almost sad. It reminded me of the scent of spring, of the light of the rising sun, of the sound of soft waves on the lakeside. 

A small thing inside me tightened…a knot of rage so pure it felt like a shard of glass in the middle of my chest. The bird’s voice threaded through the dark, thin and stubborn, echoing in my skull, in my veins, in my memories.

The Dusk hissed in displeasure. We were one, and we did not like the scent of spring, or the light of the rising sun, or the sound of soft waves on the lakeside. Tendrils twined around my limbs, whispering promises, humming soft and deadly lullabies, reminding me of the comfort of surrender. 

But the rage was white-hot and painful and empowering.

I spat something that sounded like a laugh. It came out hoarse and wet with rain and blood.

I was one of the Dusk.

I was the Dusk.

I was also fire, and fire could rise, fire could spread, fire could roar higher than towers, hotter than the sun.

Fire will not stop. It will take the city, the river, the sky—and with it every crawling shadow, every last creature of the Dusk. Burn until nothing is left but ash and silence.

I was nothing but shadow. Nothing but fear. Nothing but rage and fire.

But still, the bird’s song echoed faintly from afar.

It was a dark night, and I was lying in the middle of the street, the stone beneath my back uneven and cold. It was a dark night; the clouds had swallowed the moon. The rain was heavy, pouring into my face, pooling in the hollow of my throat, running dark with my blood. The wind was still howling, the clouds were swirling, but the lightning had moved farther away. The sky rumbled softly.

My limbs shook.

In the distance, beyond the little houses of the outer city, beyond the ornate rooftops of the tall stone buildings of the inner city, the palace stood.

There was no fire.

The palace was not burning.

Not burning, not burning, not burning. The building was dark, only a shadow in the night. No light, no flames.

A fleeting moment of relief—then the Dusk sank straight into me, whispering and swirling around me, seeping under my skin, into my bones.

The bird’s song trembled among the shadows, faint, soft, yet persistent. It vibrated in my chest, crawling up my spine, wrapping around me. A thread of memory. A whisper I could not fully grasp.

Hope—

But as soon as I thought that, the Dusk closed around me, coiling its tendrils, dragging me into shadow, screaming in a language of fear, hunger, and terror.

Time stretched slowly. Clouds crept across the sky. Rain raged, the storm ripped trees from the ground, smashed windows, tore the laundry hung out to dry in the evening, and carried it far away.

I hate you, I whispered to the Dusk. It didn’t care; it hungered for pain, for suffering, for hatred. It feasted. We feasted.

I will kill you all, my thoughts whispered, wrapping around the Dusk’s creeping, rustling creatures. We shall all burn. The city, the houses, the palace. The river, the lakes, the distant sea. The earth and the sky.

I wanted the palace to remain standing, for the flames never to come again, yet at the same time I longed to drag the Dusk screaming with me into the fire and laugh as it all ended.

The thought filled me with something close to ecstasy.

You can’t hurt us, little magician, hummed the Dusk. 

You will burn in my flames, I thought.

It was a dark night, but somewhere, nearer now, the bird sang.

The Dusk pressed memories into me—my mother buried beneath the rubble, silent. Locke’s blood in the rain, Lysander’s eyes alight with cruel delight as his experiments succeeded. The flogging that never truly happened. The flames. The endless screams.

The bird sang. Locke smiled at me. Ilara rolled her eyes, imitating me at a tedious dinner we were both too young and immature to endure. The market stalls brimmed with peaches one summer morning. The monastery’s summer evenings were warm and drowsy, and I wandered alone in the forest, unhurried and calm. I sat in the library, surrounded by the smell of old parchment and freshly printed books.

The Dusk screamed in fury and drove the memories away. In the next instant, I was in pitch darkness, deep in the Lost Library, and I faced the Dusk, terrified and helpless.

The bird sang, and my mother too had sung to me in my childhood. Locke took me to the cottage. I searched the library with Sol, studying together. Even Lander wrote me a letter.

The Dusk crept like a thick, dark fog into the depths of my mind. I was alone in the woods around the monastery, starving and afraid.

The bird sang, and the monks took me in and took care of me.

The Dusk enfolded me, soft as a blanket. Locke was dead.

It was a dark night.

The bird sang, and its claws sank into my chest, ripping open skin and flesh, tearing the darkness away from me. Locke saved my life many times.

The memories clashed. Pain and warmth, horror and light, suffocating darkness and the simple, comforting sounds of everyday life. 

The Remembrance Bird was there with me. The rain was still pouring down relentlessly, but in the distance the clouds had torn apart just enough for me to see the bird circling around me in the pale light of the moon. Her coal-black feathers shimmered with deep shades of red, blue, and emerald, and she was more beautiful than ever, and my heart trembled just from the sight of how beautiful she was—

The Dusk did not like beautiful things. Darkness coiled around me, from within me, and lashed out towards the bird.

She did not care. She kept singing.

I coughed, choked, and gasped for air. “The fire…” I whispered.

The bird’s song climbed into loud, piercing notes.

“But the fire,” I muttered, groaning as I pushed myself up on my elbow. Everything hurt. Black blood had pooled around my leg; it looked as if a piece of my left thigh was missing. “You must go,” I said to the bird. My voice was hoarse, my throat ached, my jaw trembled. “You must go,” I repeated, a little louder. “The fire… you must go. Now.”

I drew a deep breath. Beneath my skin, fire and the Dusk swirled.

There will be no fire, the Dusk crooned.

Oh yes, there will, I answered, and this time I truly laughed, sitting alone on the cobblestones in the middle of the night, with a singing bird and the swirling darkness. There will be a pyre here like the world has never seen.

The Dusk took shape around me: human-like, flickering, blurred figures. It did not want fire. We did not want fire. 

The suffering lasts only as long as the people live.

The Dusk wanted the suffering, as long as we could have it. But the Dusk was not afraid that I might harm them with fire–

They probably didn’t believe I could.

But I, in that moment, was more certain of myself and my power than I had ever been.

The Dusk did not like confidence. The next moment I was on the ground again, my head hitting the cobblestones once more, and the pain was more unbearable than ever. I was standing in the middle of the Marshlands of Durnock, surrounded by swamp and whispers and swirling greenish mist. It was silent, except for the distant steps of something large and heavy… sloshing through the water… knocking down trees… its breath ruffling reality itself around me, twisting and warping it, and the ground slipped from under my feet, and I plunged into the muddy water… I could not move, could not get up, only thrashed and screamed as icy water filled my lungs…

A sharp pain in my left forearm. The Remembrance Bird was standing in the pool of blood, its beak buried deep into the flesh of my arm. The marsh dissolved, and instead I was standing barefoot in the enchanted garden between the Sanctum and the Citadel, after I had jumped out the window, surrounded by the radiant white light that destroyed the Dusk…

The Dusk hissed, and the next moment I was in the cell at the Citadel, and my father came to see me, and I lied to his face, but he knew who I was, and everything I had built collapsed…

The Remembrance Bird had plucked a piece of skin out of me. I cried out, though the pain was nothing compared to the rest that engulfed me. I was in the palace gardens, and for a moment I was bound to the Dusk’s creations, darkness swirling around us, and I destroyed them all easily.

A nauseating, chilling sensation: the Dusk’s fingers deep inside my mind. I was in the palace’s grand hall, kneeling beside Locke on the ground, watching as he bled out, unable to help.

The Remembrance Bird was singing. I was in a dream, leading the armies of the Dusk, and they obeyed my will.

I laughed, hysterical and mad and dark, sobbing and choking.

The Dusk drew back cautiously as I sat up.

The bird was circling above my head.

“Thank you,” I said. Its song was alien and chilling and beautiful, and I understood now that I did not need to set the world on fire to be free.

I am stronger than the Dusk. Stronger than the fire.

I am the one in control.

I stood up. 

It was a dark night. My clothes were torn, my skin scorched, and on my left leg a bone was almost showing. And yet I stood, the shredded hem of my coat fluttering in the wind, and watched as the bird, rain-soaked but beautiful, rose higher and carried on singing.

A Dusk Knight stood before me. Its voice was low, rasping, wrapping around me and cutting deep into my mind. “One little magician,” it whispered. Its voice blended with the patter of raindrops, with the pain, with the memories of the past. “One little lost prince against the Dusk.”

I tilted my head to the side. The bird sang on, relentless. Blood dripped from my hand. “I am not against you,” I replied. “I’m one of…” I shook my head. “We are one.”

The Dusk swirled and coiled and hissed around me. We were one. They reveled in my power. They leeched, feasted, drank the magic.

I stepped forward, across the cobblestones, through the shadows with the Dusk. The storm softened. People cried, trembled, mourned. The Dusk covered everything, and the city seemed frozen as the darkness claimed its victims. Fears, memories, pain. Loneliness and terror. Stifled screams.

We were in a house, slowly collapsing above us. An old man lay motionless on the floor by the door. Before us, a small child sat, messy and bloody, trapped beneath the rubble.

We are strong, hissed the Dusk as it coiled around the boy, and we sank our claws and tendrils into him, kindling his fear as we feasted on his life.

We are strong, I hissed too, and tested my grasp of the darkness, the twisting tendrils of the Dusk, and lifted the fallen beam off the boy’s legs.

It was easy. Simple. He struggled, opened his eyes.

Hope.

The Dusk constricted around both of us at once. I screamed; the fear bit under my skin, and I clawed at it, leaving bloody streaks along my arms. I was nine years old, the library burned, my family burned, it was all my fault—the smell of charred flesh filled the world, and I vomited, curling into myself on the floor.

When I opened my eyes, the boy was dead, and the Dusk tried to draw me back into the darkness…but this time I fought. Images, memories, fears flashed in my mind; sometimes only scents, feelings, thoughts. I shook my head. We were on the street; the house had collapsed behind us.

The fire raged wildly beneath my skin, but the bird sang, and the fire subsided.

We are one, the Dusk hummed.

I tried to take a deep breath. My lungs ached. Some of my ribs felt broken. I could not stand straight, but I stood, and I breathed.

We are one, I repeated.

The Dusk hummed with satisfaction.

I give you my strength, I added.

It is ours, hissed the Dusk.

We moved slowly down the street. Faces writhing in the Dusk’s claws turned towards us as we passed.

I took another deep breath. The bird sang. I ripped the Dusk off the writhing faces.

The Dusk Knight stood beside me. Its sword’s edge grated against the cobblestones.

“Little magician,” it murmured. “You have no power over us.” It laughed, its voice like rattling chains on rocks. Shadows spilled out of it, thick and cold, lashing around me, into me, through me. I staggered, choking on the taste of rot, of death, of destruction. For a heartbeat, I was drowning. “You are ours. You are nothing. You are the ruin you bring.”

Maybe. My body shook; my knee struck the cobblestones.

The Remembrance Bird sang. I had defeated the Dusk in the enchanted garden. I had defeated the Dusk at the palace. In my dreams, I had led their armies.

And it was easy—ridiculously easy. I drew a deep breath and forced my muscles to stand. My legs shook. Every breath hurt. Shaking and crooked, but I stood.

I raised my hand.

A quick, jerking motion—almost just a thought—and the Dusk Knight vanished, forever.

The shadows shivered.

I laughed. Power crackled down my spine, black and molten, alive. The storm’s last lightning bolts struck towards me, bathing the street in blinding white light.

I staggered, trembling with pain, dizzy.

The bird sang.

I was the power.

The Dusk faltered slightly.

Power, I told them. We are the power.

Power, the Dusk echoed.

I moved, and the Dusk moved with me. I stepped, and then we swept through the shadows together. The Dusk did not break through any more doors. The Dusk left the houses, leaving behind confusion, terror, and death—but also life. The Dusk departed before finishing its feast.

We passed a tilting bridge gate, where a family of four was trapped in a half-collapsed room, floodwater rising around their knees. We stopped. The Dusk lashed out, tendrils coiling around the stone, ripping it apart with a shriek like breaking bone. An invisible force shoved the wall the other way, and it collapsed, spilling into the river instead of onto the family. They scrambled free, clutching one another, dripping, white-faced. Their eyes fixed on me. They stared, frozen, silent.

I dissolved again, shadows pouring through the alleys, through walls, across rooftops. In the marketplace, we rescued people trapped under toppled stalls and horse-drawn carts. We cleared debris and people crawled out, silent and trembling. 

The Dusk bared its teeth. I ripped it off the people. The bird kept singing, and the sky began to clear.

The Dusk was me, and I was the Dusk. A tree that should have crushed someone lifted, twisting like smoke in my hands. A roof slotted back into place. I just reached, and the Dusk followed.

Terrified eyes followed us through the city.

Do not hope, the Dusk murmured. No one loves you.

“I know,” I answered. I am dark and vast. “I do not hope. I command.”

The Dusk pulsed with my heartbeat. I lifted a house’s roof, raised walls, rolled away fallen timber, caught a child before she slipped into the river. The Dusk bent to my will. I sent the Dusk away from the people. They were not pleased, but they obeyed.

I was stronger.

I was more dreadful.

I hauled the river back—not gently, but with brutal precision—while the bird’s song grew louder and louder. The wind had died down, and the pouring rain had quietened to a drizzle.

The Dusk followed.

The bird sang.

The city was vast, but the night was long. Tears ran down my face as the rain slowly stopped. The Dusk no longer feasted.

We no longer feasted.

They followed me, and by the time the first rays of the sun appeared over the eastern sky, the city was quiet and still. The river roared, but it no longer swept people away. Trees no longer lay across houses. Nobody remained trapped under fallen roof beams or in flooded cellars.

The Dusk no longer feasted on anyone. We no longer feasted on anyone. No more lives were taken.

We went through every street of the city—except the palace. The palace still rose darkly over the city. I summoned the Dusk from the palace, but I did not go there.

Dawn found us by the riverside at the outer city wall. I lay at the ditch’s edge, sodden, coiled in the blackness that bound me to the Dusk. The rain washed my blood away slowly. It was a dark dawn.

 

*

The silence was ear-splitting.

Mud clung to my clothes, mingled with blood, sweat, and rainwater. My chest heaved. My ribs ached, and I no longer understood how I had ever managed to stand. To move at all.

My body felt broken.

The Dusk flowed around me, whispering softly. I did not care. We were one, but it had no power over me.

I longed for Locke. For him to appear, as he always did in the corridors of the Sanctum when I needed him—or when I was trying to avoid him. I wanted him to use that damned tracking spell to find me. The warmth of his hands. His tired laugh. To brush the wet, filthy strands of hair from my face, to wipe away my tears, to scold me for never obeying him. To lean close, so I could feel his breath on my face. To prepare me a bath and dry me off when I was clean. To tilt my head up with a finger under my chin. To make me obey him.

The feeling, deep in my chest, that had huddled in a tiny corner all night, now opened and flooded everything. For a moment I could not breathe.

Locke was dead.

I understood then what the Dusk was whispering:

We could do more.

We could do everything.

They fear us, they bow to us, we can defeat anyone.

Locke was dead. The Dusk Knight’s poisoned blade had pierced his chest, and I had not even been there with him, because the Dusk had pulled me into the city as we feasted on people’s fears.

At least Locke did not see what I had become. At least he would never know what I had done.

I reached for him in the darkness and found nothing. I bit my hand, drawing blood, to suppress the sounds that slipped out from my mouth as I sobbed. I could not breathe. My ribs pressed like broken stakes into my lungs. My throat burned, and I whimpered, lying in the mud, alone.

The Dusk pressed close, crooning, whispering: We are here. We will not leave you.

I closed my eyes. I imagined the cities bending to my will, armies drowning in shadow, palaces burning until kings crawled at my feet. I could remake the whole world. I could carve my name into the founding stones of a new, better world, shaped to my will and to my taste.

It would be so easy. I could crush empires with a flick of my finger.

The Dusk purred in delight. Lead us. Command us. We are yours. Be the prince you were meant to be. Let us conquer the world together, and you will never be alone again.

Locke was dead. The Dusk had killed him.

Above, the Remembrance Bird sang.

I realised I was probably dying. I shouldn’t have been conscious at all. The Dusk swirled, whispering, endless and huge and awful.

Locke was dead.

The Dusk had killed Locke.

I screamed into the dim light of dawn, the sound tearing my throat raw. My voice was sharp and rough and terrible, barely human. The Dusk writhed, coiled, pressed around me. Human-like hands glided across my skin, nails from half-formed shadows scratched my temples, sickening, icy darkness brushed my shoulders, churning my stomach and raising goosebumps on my skin.

You are nothing, the Dusk hissed suddenly.

I could not move. I screamed.

I felt the Dusk around me. Every creature, small and large, manlike and solid, fleeting and shadowed. Every last tendril.

My lungs ran out of air, and the scream died. I drew a shivering breath, pain spreading through my chest, along my veins, down my spine. We were one with the Dusk. We were connected. They were mine.

…And I was stronger.

My skull rang with pressure, my vision narrowed to white and black, the world shaking beneath its weight.

The Dusk clawed, bit, howled. They showed me Locke’s body, his blood on the stone. My mother’s hand, limp beneath rubble. My own face as a child, burned and weeping. Die with us, they crooned. Lie down. Drown. Burn.

I let my power loose.

It was so simple. So easy.

Broken sobs, frantic laughter. I let the magic pour from me, dark and swirling.

We were connected.

The magic flowed through me, into every last wretched being of the Dusk.

It was not spectacular. There was no fire, no flames, no explosion. Just a gentle push, a tiny motion of my trembling fingers. Almost just a thought.

And the Dusk shrieked. Shadows curdled, blistered, collapsed in on themselves. Then the voices were cut off, one by one.

Shadows being ripped apart. Darkness torn out of the night.

My body fell limp, twitching, half-dead. 

The dawn was silent around me. 

The Dusk was gone.

The bird sang above me, and in the distance the sun slowly rose.

 

*

 

I was so tired.

I wanted Locke to be there, but Locke was dead. I let myself drift into unconsciousness.

 

Chapter 58: Infirmary

Summary:

Will wakes up in the Infirmary.

In my dreams, Locke was talking to me.

I never understood the exact words, but the voice was unmistakably his; sometimes distant and faint, at other times close and loud, and at times little more than a fading whisper.

Sometimes it was calm. Sometimes angry. Sometimes almost pleading. Most of the time I couldn’t tell the difference.

My eyes were closed; my body heavy and numb. I tried to answer, but my tongue was thick and useless.

Even breathing was hard.

I tried to open my eyes, tried to move, tried to take a deep breath… then pain engulfed everything, voices shouted around me, footsteps clattered on the floor, and then unconsciousness pulled me back into the comforting, enveloping darkness.

I was one with the Dusk.

My leg moved on its own—though I was still lying on the bed, the sheet beneath me warm and damp. Someone was moving my leg…the bone inside my leg…and then everything went numb: my body, my mind, my thoughts.

“Rest,” said Locke, though he was dead, so his voice should have been dead too, it shouldn’t have been echoing around my head–

Maybe I was still lying in the mud. Maybe I had never left the street at all.

Locke is dead, I told myself, over and over. Locke is dead. I killed him. I lost him. The Dusk took him. I let it happen.

There was darkness and pain and the smell of herbs, and the bitter taste of pain-dulling brews in my throat.

The Dusk whispered at the edge of my mind.

Not words, not voices, just the pressure, the murmur, the claws scraping inside my veins. My blood mingling with the rain on the cobblestones. The Dusk around me, waiting for my command. The Dusk Knight turning to dust at a single thought of mine.

I was strong and powerful, and I killed every creature of the Dusk.

I was lying in the mud, bleeding, dying.

Something warm touched my wrist.

I jerked—or tried to, but my body no longer remembered how to move. I trembled.

“Easy.” A voice. His voice.

I didn’t look. If I looked, he’d be gone. Besides, I couldn’t open my eyes anyway.

The warmth at my wrist tightened. Fingers. Strong and familiar…

Why do I have to hallucinate this in such detail.

I waited for him to say something. Why didn’t you listen to me? Why weren’t you more careful? How many times must I tell you?

But there was only silence around me, and a soft blanket, and the memories of the city that had been first flooded by the storm, then by the Dusk.

I didn’t dream of anything, but when I was half-awake I saw my mother vanish beneath the collapsing roof.

Something cool brushed across my forehead— a cloth? A hand? The wind? The Dusk?

Was it still inside me?

Am I still me?

And somewhere far off, the Remembrance Bird was singing. Its song pierced through the all-enveloping fog, silvery, mournful, yet still a powerful lullaby, and I let it rock me to sleep.

I had no other choice anyway.

The magic pulsed just beneath the surface, deep in my skin, in my blood.

“I’m here.”

That voice again, steady and certain.

I opened my eyes.

Blur. Darkness. Light. A shape beside the bed. A shoulder. A white sleeve of a shirt. A line of jaw…

I blinked and it was gone.

Just a shadow. Just a dream. Just my mind trying to fill the silence.

I closed my eyes again and sank back into the haze.

Locke was dead.

…But warmth slid across my hair, slow and careful, and I leaned into it before I could stop myself. 

At least I had nice dreams.

 

I sensed days passing, but I had no idea how time moved.

I began to understand the voices around me better. Healers, discussing herbs and dosages and charms. Voices that sounded wise, speaking of magic and my strength, and of brews that now offered safety.

A gruff, rasping voice: “He will not wake any sooner for you being here.”

A softer reply, the voice familiar but less certain than usual: “I know.”

“You need to rest too. You nearly died yourself.”

“I’m resting. But I need to be here when he wakes.”

More murmurs. Locke’s quiet, gentle responses.

My mind tried to make sense of what was happening, but thinking was exhausting, and sleeping was easy and comfortable.

 

Slowly, my body was beginning to feel like it belonged to me. I had both legs. My fingers moved. My chest rose and fell, my lungs filled with air, my heart pumped blood.

My thoughts were hazy and scattered, but at least they existed. They were thoughts. My thoughts. If I concentrated hard enough, I could even control them.

When I first opened my eyes, it was dark around me. I could just make out the high ceiling of the Infirmary above me.

The Sanctum.

The air was still filled with the scent of herbs: fresh, green, sharp, cool, and strangely calming at the same time. The blanket over me was heavy and warm, and I was slightly sweaty underneath, though the air on my face felt cool. My fingers trembled slightly.

I turned my head to the side. On the bedside table, glass bottles and vials glimmered faintly in the light of distant sconce. Medicines. Brews. Potions.

And as my gaze drifted further—there he was, sitting at the edge of the neighbouring bed, ankles crossed, arms resting by his sides. His hair was slightly tousled. His cheekbones cast shadows in the dim light. His eyes were open, and they were fixed on me—

I screamed.

It was a frightening sound: raw and jagged, scraping the silence of the Infirmary, of the night, of the world itself. It rattled my chest, burned my lungs, and then broke off into a ragged gasp.

He was already beside me.

“Will…” His voice was low and steady, and far too familiar, far too real.

“No, no, no, no, no–” My hands clawed at the blanket, at the sheets. My pulse was roaring in my ears. “You’re not– You’re not–”

“Shh.” Careful hands on my shoulders, gently pressing me back onto the pillows. “Everything’s all right. Everything’s all right, Will.”

I kept thrashing, and he held me gently until all my strength gave out. I lay still, gasping for air.

“Breathe,” he said. The mattress dipped as he sat beside me. “It’s me, William. Everything’s all right. You are still healing, but you will be fine. Everything will be fine.”

I breathed. In and out, with burning lungs and wide-open eyes, staring at Locke’s flawless face in the pale light…

My gaze drifted lower. His chest was pierced by the Dusk Knight’s blade, his white shirt soaked with blood, rain tearing down, blood running between the stones, and I was one with the Dusk, screaming again, and Locke’s face was pale and terrified, and healers were rushing into the room, and I tried to sit up and push them away, but I was weak and powerless—

The elixirs dulled my thoughts. I didn’t fall asleep, I just lay there, numb and dazed, motionless.

Locke sat beside me, his cold fingers stroking my fevered forehead.

“Everything will be all right,” he whispered.

I felt tears flood my eyes, but I couldn’t lift my hand to wipe them away.

Locke’s fingers were gentle and careful on my face. “I’m so sorry, Will,” he murmured. “I’m so sorry. But it’s all right. You are all right. You must be worried… but everything’s all right. The Dusk is gone. Your family is safe. We are safe. Everything’s all right.”

I wanted so badly to believe him. The tears were soaking my face, and Locke’s bare fingers were not enough to wipe them away.

“Your mind is still vulnerable,” he murmured as my eyes slowly closed. “That’s why you are so dazed. You still need to heal. But just sleep, darling. Everything will be all right. I’m here with you.”

 

When I woke next, Locke was still there.

Outside, the sun was just rising. The dawn light washed the otherwise empty Infirmary in a yellowish glow through the tall windows, catching on Locke’s dark hair as he slept, fully clothed on the neighbouring bed.

I sat up. My head pounded, my body felt weak, but leaning on my arms I managed to haul myself upright, letting the blanket slip from my shoulders.

The fabric of the sheet was cool beneath me as my fingers drifted over it. My hand was uninjured, my skin intact. Along the edge of the sheet, a neat row of runes was arranged, and I felt magic in them as my fingertips passed over them. Protection. Smoothing. Confinement. Holding.

The room spun around me as I turned to the side and pulled the blanket off, letting my legs dangle. I was wearing thin black trousers, soft and comfortable, meant for sleeping. Beneath them my legs felt whole and uninjured. No visible bones, no missing pieces. I swallowed hard as my hands drifted over them. 

The bed was high, and I had to stretch for my feet to reach the floor so I wouldn’t fall. I pressed my bare soles against the cold, hard stone to stop the trembling, one hand resting on the sheet, the other braced on the edge of the bedside table. My breathing was shallow, wheezing; my head felt slightly dizzy.

I shivered in the cold, swaying, leaning on the bedside table. Glass bottles rattled faintly. Herbs, powders, tiny jars of liquid. A faint aroma of menthol, lavender, and something sharp that was familiar but my mind could not name at that moment.

The room shifted and wavered, tall shadows stretching across the floor. Outside, the sun slowly climbed above the horizon.

I took a breath, slow and measured. My exhale came out trembling, but at least I was breathing.

My mouth was dry, my lips chapped.

I am myself. I am myself, I am myself, I am myself.

And then, finally, I tried to step. One foot, then another, each a separate act of will. My legs quaked. My fingers twitched involuntarily. The floor pressed against the soles of my feet—cold, painful, real.

I am alone. My thoughts are my own.

The neighbouring bed was only a few steps away, but it felt as though it were on the other side of the world.

I stepped forward slowly, each step slow but deliberate. My breath echoed loudly in my ears. I let go of the table. Wavered. One more small step, and I was only an arm’s length away–

Locke lay sprawled on his side, fully clothed, boots still on. I stood and stared. His dark hair was mussed against the pillow, one hand resting loosely on his chest, the other hanging over the edge. His shoulders rose and fell, slow and steady.

Breathing.

My stomach twisted and I drew in a sharp breath.

He was breathing.

I stood and stared, my vision swimming. In the dim dawn light, his face looked softer. My gaze swept over him, and for a moment there was the Dusk Knight’s blade, there was the blood, there was the darkness and the screams and the death—but then I forced myself to blink, and the illusion vanished. There was no blood, no gaping wound, no rain pouring over us. Just the steady rhythm of his breath, the steady rise and fall of his chest.

The Dusk had shown me worse things—but what could be worse than false hope?

I reached out a trembling hand. My fingertips hovered above his sleeve, inches from the fabric.

I touched him.

His arm was warm. Warm and solid beneath my fingers. Warm and solid and real.

Locke stirred at once, lashes flickering, head turning. His eyes opened, instantly awake, as if he had been waiting for me.

“Will?” His voice, low and rough with sleep, but real. “What are you—”

His arm moved beneath my touch, and I lost my balance. My legs gave out. The room spun sideways–

Strong hands caught me before I hit the floor.

Locke muttered something, sharp and exasperated, which I did not understand. Then more gently: “You are supposed to be in bed.”

I gasped, half a sob, half a laugh. “You’re alive,” I wanted to say, but my throat was dry and my voice failed me.

Locke drew me into a tight embrace. “I am alive,” he murmured. “I am alive, William.”

He shifted, lifting me easily. I tried to cling to him, tried to bury my face in the crook of his neck, which was warm and living and real. Locke gently lowered me onto the bed, ignoring my mournful whimpers as he tucked me in.

“What on earth were you even thinking,” he grumbled. “You need to rest. You should not move. Not even sit up, let alone climb out of bed and wander around.”

I wanted to laugh, but for some reason I cried instead. Locke was there. Locke was there, and he was giving orders, scolding me, telling me what to do.

“You are safe,” he murmured, bending down to press a small kiss to my forehead. “I’m here with you. You are safe.”

 

The days passed. The healers came and went, but Locke was always there. I slept more than I was awake, but whenever I opened my eyes, Locke was there.

The healers poked me with fingers and with magic. They asked me questions and shone bright lights into my eyes and cast spells over me. When they were gone, it was Locke who gave me water, who measured out the medicines, who made me drink that potion that felt like I were swallowing mud. He tucked me in. Adjusted my pillows. Picked them up from the floor when I knocked them down in my sleep. He checked my temperature with the back of his hand, or simply stroked my forehead until I fell asleep.

“What happened to my mother?” I asked one day, when I was well enough to sit up and hold my mug, filled with herbal tea.

“She’s all right,” Locke replied. “Your family is safe. Your mother was injured, but she will recover. You will be allowed to see them soon.”

He drew the blanket higher around me, smoothing it over my chest with slow, methodical movements.

“I see her…” I murmured. “I see her disappearing beneath the rubble. I hear her screaming, though I know she wasn’t really screaming. I see her lying under broken beams, bloody and broken—”

My voice broke, and Locke caught the mug before it slipped from my hands as I buried my face in my drawn‑up knees. Locke wrapped his arms around me, stroking my back as I wept.

“The Dusk showed you that,” he said quietly. “It showed you everything you feared the most. I know it feels like memories, but they aren’t, William, they aren’t. It wasn’t real. Your mother was truly injured, the rubble really did fall on her. You were very brave to try to help her, but everything else was just what the Dusk showed you. Your mother is all right.”

I tried to breathe, but sobs shook me, and for a moment it felt again as though my head was filled with the Dusk’s creatures, as though we were hungry, as though we longed to destroy and to suffer–

Locke’s fingers slid beneath my chin. “Look at me,” he said softly.

I was tear-stained and sniffling, gasping for breath and shaking, but I looked up. Locke’s gaze was clear, steady, and full of love.

“You are safe,” he said. “The Dusk is gone. The Council has investigated, and all signs point to the Dusk being gone. For good. Forever. And that is all because of you, Will. You were brave, strong, and steadfast. You saved the city. You kept your mind when any other magician would have been consumed.”

I clung to the fabric of his sleeve. “But I saw it.”

“The Dusk made you see it,” Locke corrected gently. “Your mother was injured. She was beneath rubble. But she was not screaming. She was not dead.”

I trembled. “But the Dusk Knight… you… it… it did… it really did…”

“Stab me? Yes. I was very badly injured. The Dusk Knight’s poison is deadly, but slow, William.” Locke’s thumb brushed across my cheek, catching the dampness there. “The storm… made things more difficult for the magicians. But your mother received help in time, ynd so did I. I recovered quickly.”

My breath hitched. “The Aurora Device?”

Locke’s expression flickered. A small wince. Resignation. “Yes.”

“It was only my hand…” I whispered. The memory flared: that day on the square, Locke telling me to stay behind the barrier, the Dusk Knight’s blade scratching my hand. The searing pain as the Aurora Device healed it. “But you… your chest…”

“Yes,” Locke said quietly. “It wasn’t pleasant.”

A wet snort escaped me before I could stop it. “You enjoyed it when you used the Device on my hand.”

“I enjoyed,” he replied dryly, “that you were finally understanding there are consequences. That you learnt that you must obey when I give an order.” A weary shake of his head. “At least, I thought you had learnt it.”

I fell silent. The tears had stopped, but something else remained in my chest—powerful, burning, sharp. The potions I was taking still dulled everything somewhat, yet the feeling was strong and painful all the same.

“I…” My voice was very quiet, cautious. “I—I know I shouldn’t have—”

 

Before I could finish, Locke caught my wrist, pulling my hand away from my mouth. I hadn’t even noticed I’d been biting into the skin.

“No,” he said, firm enough to cut through the haze. “No, William. Not now. You forget that right now. You did nothing wrong. Nothing. Do you understand?”

I stared at him, wide-eyed and shaking, unable to breathe, unable to nod.

Locke framed my face between his hands, his palms cool against my fevered cheeks. His touch was steady. Unyielding. Anchoring.

“Nothing wrong,” he repeated, and his voice was low, unwavering. “You were brave. You were strong.”

My vision blurred again, fresh tears burning. “People—” The word stuck like glass. “People died. I… the Dusk…we… we killed—”

“No.” Locke’s hands tightened, thumb stroking beneath my eye. “No. The Dusk killed people. You did not.”

“But I… I felt—” I squeezed my eyes shut, voice rising. “The Dusk— I was— we were—”

“You were not the Dusk,” Locke said sharply. “You were yourself, fighting it from within.” His voice softened, but the steel remained. “Perhaps you touched it. Perhaps you carried it for a moment. But their cruelty is not yours.”

I lowered my head, trying to hide, trying to shrink away.

“You hear me?” he said. “The Dusk does not get to claim you. Not now. Not ever.”

I didn’t realise I had started shaking until Locke shifted closer, turning my back against his chest, his forehead coming gently to rest on the top of my head. His breath warmed my hair, steady and unhurried.

“Breathe with me,” he murmured.

I tried. In. Out. One of his hands still cradled my cheek, the other pressed firmly and reassuringly over my upper back, holding me in place.

“You are not alone,” he said quietly. “The Dusk is gone, and I’m here. Your friends are here. Your family is here.”

The tension in me coiled tighter, tighter and tighter, until it snapped. I lunged forward, grabbing fistfuls of the sheet, burying my face into it. 

Locke wrapped his arms around me, unmovable and warm, folding over me like a soft blanket.

“You fought the Dusk,” he murmured. “And you won.”

“I didn’t,” I sobbed into the bedding. “I fell. I let it in. I hurt people—”

“You saved people.” His tone sharpened, slicing clean through my words. “You fought and kept your mind and you won. You helped the city fight the storm. You held the Dusk back from hurting more people. You were injured and barely standing, William, yet you were strong enough to triumph over the Dusk. You had the willpower to make the hardest, but also the bravest choice.” Locke brushed a strand of hair from my forehead. 

I swallowed hard. My throat ached. “It felt real,” I whispered. “I was the Dusk. I– we–” I shook my head, letting out another small sob.

“You did everything you could,” Locke murmured. “Everything. You kept your mind. You kept your heart. You held the Dusk back. You saved people, even when it wanted you to destroy. You were brave. You were strong. You did everything right, William.”

I shook my head, biting my lip.

“You didn’t hurt anyone.” His voice was strong, steady. So confident. “The Dusk did what it did. You fought. You were there, but you were yourself. Not them. You did your best. You saved lives.”

I swallowed hard, chest tight, tears pooling and slipping down.

“I can tell you a hundred times, William,” Locke said softly, brushing wet strands of hair from my forehead, “and I will, until you can believe me. You did everything right. You were brave. You were faithful. You were everything a magician should be. You saved so many, and you kept yourself alive. You did so good.”

This was stupid. Locke was so stupid. I wanted to tell him that he had delusions, but at the same time my eyelids were growing so heavy. My chest loosened, just a little. I told myself it was the effect of the herbal tea, not his words. 

“Lie down,” Locke murmured, slipping out to the edge of the bed.

I hesitated.

His brow arched. “William.”

Heat flushed my face. I let him ease me back, the sheets cool against my skin, the pillow soft beneath my head. I felt small. Exhausted. 

Safe.

Locke pulled the blanket over me once more, tucking it beneath my arms with infuriating precision.

“Sleep,” he whispered. “I will be here. We can talk more later.”

I nodded, blinking up at him.

He stood, but leaned back down to kiss my temple. “You did everything right, darling,” he murmured, and I let my eyelids fall.

 

The next day Locke finally allowed me to sit up on my own. The healers came in briefly, murmured their usual assessments, and declared that I no longer needed to take three of my stronger potions. I was still weak, but my limbs no longer trembled, I could breathe without pain, and for the most part my mind was clear about who I was and where I was.

Locke went out for a short while in the morning to send a message to my parents. When he came back and saw that I still hadn’t drunk my morning herbal tea, his brows furrowed with such worried intensity that I couldn’t help laughing.

“There’s nothing funny about this,” he muttered, adjusting the pillows behind my back and pressing the cup into my hands. “You need to heal. The healers’ orders are not optional, William.”

That only made me laugh harder. His brow furrowed even more, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. I knew how much stronger and more alive I must have looked compared to a few days earlier, and how relieved he must have been to see it.

“Drink your tea,” he grumbled.

“Yes, sir,” I replied with a cheeky grin, hiding my face behind the cup when he suddenly stopped fussing with my medicines and stared at me.

I’d been cleared to have visitors, and not long after I had eaten a piece of toast and some stewed apple for breakfast, Sol arrived. Locke straightened my pillows one last time and then left us alone.

I searched Sol’s face for any trace that he hated me, judged me, or feared me, but if he did, he hid it very well.

“Everyone’s still talking about it,” he said, sitting on the edge of the neighbouring bed and swinging his legs. “The Council has meeting after meeting, though half the councillors are still in the capital. From what I’ve heard, things are slowly being restored.”

“Locke never said he had to attend any Council meetings,” I murmured quietly.

“They say he hasn’t left here at all,” Sol answered gently.

I didn’t reply. Instead, Sol talked about his studies, the books he’d been reading lately, and how, now that the Dusk had apparently vanished, they were helping in Rowland’s classes with the search for any lingering traces.

“Though it’s actually really boring,” he added with a wave of his hand. “We just cast all sorts of tracking charms and then spend hours writing reports about how nothing happened. It really does seem like the Dusk is gone for good.”

“I’d say I can’t wait to join in,” I muttered. “But that hasn’t exactly made it sound appealing.”

“Have they said anything about how long it might take for you to recover?”

I shrugged. “I don’t think there’s much precedent for merging with dark magical forces like the Dusk,” I muttered.

“They say…” Sol’s voice was careful, and he fiddled with the blanket beside him. “They say, Will, that you saved the entire city, but by the end you had… you had nearly died?”

For a moment I was back on the bank of the moat, lying in the mud, blood all around me, rain pouring down, bone jutting from my leg. The Dusk flooding my mind.

I swallowed hard. “I even got struck by lightning,” I said. “Just an average day, isn’t it?”

Sol gave a wistful smile. “Everyone’s very proud of you,” he said.

I only hummed in reply. Sol went on talking about simple, everyday things that were easy to listen to. By the time he had to leave, my mood had lifted a bit.

I called after him just as he reached the door. “Sol, what do you know about the storm?”

He looked slightly surprised. “They say it was huge and powerful? Dangerous?”

I tilted my head. “That’s all?”

“Why, what are you thinking?”

“They’re not saying it was a massive magical storm where spells didn’t work properly?”

Sol’s jaw dropped. “What?”

“Would you check the library for anything like that? Anything at all?”

“Of course…”

“But if you can, don’t tell anyone, all right?”

“Of course,” Sol nodded, then slipped out through the door.

A few minutes later Locke returned, fussing with the potions I’d soon have to take and reminding me that I should get some rest so I wouldn’t tire myself. I rolled my eyes—but it actually felt good to lie back down.

My parents arrived together, and the scene— they standing there in the old Infirmary of the Sanctum, among empty beds, shelves lined with long-forgotten bottles, and walls hung with worn, ancient tapestries—might have seemed almost ridiculous.

If I hadn’t started crying the moment I saw them.

My mother had always been elegant, beautiful, and even now, moving with the aid of a crutch, she carried herself with the grace I remembered from my childhood—tall, assured, unshaken.

The King lingered a few paces back. The guards who had accompanied them, thankfully, remained outside. Locke spoke quietly with my father before leaving, closing the door behind him.

Mother settled on the edge of my bed, brushing my hand gently with hers. For a fleeting moment, I felt like I was five years old again, tripping in the courtyard and twisting my ankle… But no—this time I had unleashed the Dusk upon the palace, upon the entire capital. I had nearly killed my mother. Truly killed countless people. (I had never asked the numbers; I didn’t want to know.)

Mother drew me into her arms, whispering how glad she was that I was safe, that I was healing, that I was growing stronger.

“I… I didn’t mean—” I began, then broke off, weeping quietly, turning my face away.

“You were brave, Arvil,” my mother murmured, her voice soft but firm. “You saved lives.”

“I… it’s my fault,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “I—if I hadn’t… the Dusk came because of me–” My words faltered. “I put all of you in danger.”

Her hands tightened around mine, gentle yet grounding. “Vil,” she said softly, “my little son. We have spoken with the Council. We have read the reports. We know all that we can about what happened. You were faced with something no one could have controlled. You did what you could.” Her thumb brushed against my knuckles. “My brave little son.”

“But I–” I gasped, my chest tightening. “If I hadn’t been there, if I had never gone back to the palace–”

She cut me off, her voice shifting, firm and commanding, the kind that reminded me why she was queen. “Enough. Listen to me. You did nothing wrong. Nothing. You were brave, you fought, you saved lives. You were careful and clever and courageous. You will not speak of blame any longer.”

I swallowed hard, my chest tightening even more. “But… you don’t understand…”

“Listen to your mother,” said the King. 

I glared at him. Swallowed angrily. Blinked up at my mother. 

Then I sighed and let her hug me even tighter. She murmured more praises and stroked my hair and laughed and shed a few tears. 

Father remained in the background, hands folded, but there was a gentle smile on his face.

 

The days passed. I was awake more and more, and at times I even found myself getting a little bored. Locke brought me a few books. Sol brought just one, promising to keep searching in the library—but if there was anything written about magical storms, they were being kept very well hidden. The one he had found was a collection of notes by an old mage slowly losing his mind, who had begun investigating all sorts of conspiracy theories (things like a group of mages once having turned the Moon upside down, or that chickens weren’t real and we were all just imagining them. My favourite was the one claiming reality itself was merely the nightmare of a sleeping dragon).

In any case, I hid the book under my mattress so Locke wouldn’t see it, which meant I had practically no time to read at all, because Locke was constantly bustling around me. Pouring tea. Measuring out potions. Straightening blankets. Helping me wash and change into clean clothes, even though I was perfectly capable of doing that on my own by then. He hovered beside me whenever I stood up, even though I could already stand steadily. He gave me lectures about responsibility and recovery when I got stubborn one morning and refused to swallow another sip of the mud-textured potion.

Not that I didn’t enjoy having him around. I managed to persuade him to sleep properly in his own bed, and then to actually attend the Council meetings (my plan was to get new information out of him afterwards), but I ended up feeling rather teary when he truly did go. Especially since he came back with absolutely no exciting news: the meeting apparently had been about the supply chains used to aid the reconstruction of the capital.

Practically all the apprentices came to visit. They brought flowers, fruit, and chocolate. Gavin, driven by some completely mad impulse, surprised me with a bottle of Wraith Wine, which I tried to hide from Locke but failed—he only shook his head while I blushed furiously.

My siblings came too. First Eldric, then Ilara—who visited several times—then Lander and Ruvan, who argued the entire time, then Aflin, and finally Liora, who brought her child, who nearly drank one of my potions that had a nice pink colour.

Sol came every day, talking about lessons, even copying his notes for me and bringing the books we were supposed to read for the common lectures.

One afternoon I must have dozed off, because I woke to find Ilara sitting on the edge of the neighbouring bed—kissing Tessa.

“What the hell,” I exclaimed. “Ilara!”

“Morning, Vil!” she said cheerfully. “I was waiting for you to wake up.”

“You were—what—” I sat up, gaping at her while she just grinned. Tessa looked somewhat embarrassed. 

“You don’t have to pretend you’re here to visit me if you’re really just here to go on dates,” I muttered.

Ilara only laughed, slipping down from the edge of the bed. “Why not both?”

I groaned, dropping back against the pillows. “Unbelievable.”

“You’ll live,” Ilara waved. “Looks like you’re doing better already.”

I pulled the blanket over my head, shaking my head. Yet before long we were just talking—small, ordinary things, light and easy. Everything felt almost normal.

 

Of course, sometimes shadows still whispered at the edges of my mind. Mostly just feelings, impressions, flashes, a hunger that wasn’t my own, a million thoughts that didn’t belong to me. Sometimes, on the border between dream and wakefulness, I could feel the icy tendrils of the Dusk clawing into my mind, twisting my thoughts and bringing all my fears to the surface. Sometimes, for just a single moment, I believed they were real.

The potions ensured I had no dreams, but sometimes I was still afraid to fall asleep. Sometimes I thought I would be back in the city again, sweeping through the night, bringing death and suffering… There were moments when the memory of the Dusk and the memory of the storm felt more real than my memories of the previous day.

Locke kept telling me that nothing that had happened was my fault. He sat at the edge of the bed, holding my hand, making me repeat that I had done everything right. That I had been brave and noble and acted rightly. That I deserved rest and peace and love.

I rolled my eyes, but he wouldn’t leave me alone until I had repeated his words.

My magic was kept in check by potions and charms and runes carved around my bed. I felt that it was there, that it was with me, and I heard its soft hum—but I only noticed I wasn’t using it when, one night, I did use it unconsciously. I had just woken, thirsty, and out of habit I sent up a sphere of light.

It was warm and radiant, bathing the room in a nice and cosy glow.

For a while I just sat, blinking, watching how simple, how natural it was.

Then I made it vanish. Then I summoned it again. Then I made it vanish, and summoned it, again and again and again…

My pulse was unsteady, my breathing uneven, but the fright, the panic, the terror did not come. The magic was easy and simple and familiar. Comfortable.

Even so, I still tossed and turned restlessly for a long time before I fell back asleep.

 

The healers poked and prodded me even more, casting more spells over me. They asked me to perform magic, while they tested my power with all kinds of cautious charms and strange magical artefacts. They pricked my finger to examine my blood. They tapped my knee with small hammers to check my reflexes. They examined my mind with strange, tickling enchantments.

Then they declared that everything was fine, and I was free to leave the infirmary. They gave long lists of things to watch for, how to be careful, how to take care of myself. They explained in detail the medicines I still had to take, but I only listened long enough to make sure I would still get the potion against nightmares. Otherwise, Locke was there anyway, taking notes.

Walking through the Sanctum felt strange. The corridors were as empty as ever. The tapestries sank beneath my boots in the same way as always, the hallways, the staircases, the passageways, all felt familiar. I knew which fabric would hang on the wall after the next corner. I knew which step would creak the loudest under our footsteps on the wooden stairs.

Yet though only a few weeks had passed, it felt as if I had been away for an eternity.

Locke took me to his room, bathed me, dressed me, gave me tea, and handed me whichever book from his shelves I asked for.

The memory of the Dusk in my mind was like a distant storm. I clenched my teeth and closed my eyes, thinking, knowing that it wasn’t real. The Dusk was gone. I was alive. I was William. Or Arvil. Whatever. 

The Dusk was gone. I lived, my mother lived, Locke lived.

I was exhausted and weak and fragile, and I woke in tears during the night—but at least it was over. The Dusk was gone. I was healing. 

Notes:

I guess you are not surprised - I'm soft, lol.
But still, please tell me what you think ❤️ Writing these last few chapters was really hard, and I'm very far from being content with them.

Chapter 59: Healing

Summary:

Will is healing. Kind of.

Notes:

I can't believe how much time has passed 😟

“But I totally could–”

“No.”

“But just a–”

“I said no, William.”

I huffed, stopping my pacing and flopping down into the chair with a dramatic sigh, crossing my arms over my chest. “You’re not even hearing me out.”

“I’m really not.” Locke didn’t even look up, just signed a document, set it aside, and reached for the next. “This is not a negotiation. You need rest. You are resting. That’s it.”

“I don’t need–”

“You do.”

“What do you even know? You’re not a healer.”

“The healers said you need more rest.”

“But–”

Locke finally looked up, and he only needed one sharp glance to silence me. He sighed, carefully set his quill down, and fixed me with his steady, immovable gaze. “Why do you even want to train? You hate training.”

I looked away, staring at the far wall.

Locke raised an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”

“I’m just bored,” I shrugged, picking at a loose thread on my sleeve.

He let out another soft breath. “Your guards should arrive tomorrow. Then you will be allowed to leave the Sanctum–”

I stared at him. “My what?”

“Guards.”

“What?”

He just shook his head, pulled another document towards him, and began writing again. “Your guards, William. You are a prince. You will be permitted to leave the Sanctum, but you are not wandering around alone.”

I blinked at him. “You have to be kidding me.”

He looked faintly amused now, eyes still on the paper. “I am not.”

“I’m not walking around with some—some guards!”

“Then you can stay in the Sanctum.”

“But– but– that’s… No. This is ridiculous.”

Locke signed another document and added it to the steadily growing pile at the edge of his desk. “Your safety is not ridiculous, William.”

I groaned, sliding down in the chair until I nearly slipped off. “Can I at least go to the library?”

“Of course,” Locke said. I let out a relieved sigh and was already half out of my chair when his voice stopped me. “Tomorrow.”

I flopped back down. “What?”

“Tomorrow, not now. Not after your bedtime.”

“I don’t have a fucking bedtime,” I glared at him.

Locke’s tone was cool and firm as he lifted his eyes to me. “You are healing. I know you are bored, I know there are many things you are not allowed to do right now, but your mind needs rest as much as your body. I know it’s hard. I know it’s tedious. But you need rest and sleep to heal.”

“That’s fucking—”

“And you would do well,” he interrupted, pointing at me with the tip of his quill, “to watch your tongue.”

I scowled. He just let out a quiet breath through his nose and went back to his papers.

“You can take a bath,” he said at last, “if you really don’t want to sleep yet. But after that, you will drink your potion and go to bed.”

“But–”

“This is not up for discussion.”

I got to my feet with a grumpy sigh. “Can I breathe,” I asked a bit sharply, “or do I need to be careful not to strain my poor, fragile little lungs?”

Locke looked up with a small chuckle. “You should be careful,” he said, “if you strain them, I will have to put you on bedrest.”

I stared at him, struggling to find words to protest.

“Bath,” Locke said. “Now.”

Rolling my eyes, I turned away. 

I dragged my feet on the entire way to the bathroom, muttering some unflattering things about certain overbearing Councillors. 

 

The hot water was annoyingly pleasant and soothing. I sank so deep that only my head, resting on the rim of the wooden tub, stuck out above the surface. I closed my eyes, trying to lay still, trying to slow my thoughts.

My body was completely healed. The healers had easily mended all my injuries. There wasn’t even the smallest cut, a tiny bruise, a slight scrape to show that anything had happened to me.

The day before, Locke had tried to make me listen to his explanations about the mind’s vulnerability. About the effect of the Dusk. About their dark magic that penetrated consciousness, about possession, about the Dusk’s shared mind.

Tentacles creeping deep into my brain. Sometimes it still felt as if they were tickling my skull from the inside.

I shook my head and grabbed the bath sponge. 

The Dusk was gone.

I sighed and sank even deeper. The bath was warm, the water smelled of herbs, nice and soothing, and I let my eyes close once more as my thoughts finally began to quiet.

Not that I would ever admit it to Locke, but for a moment—just a brief moment—the bath wasn’t entirely intolerable.

 

My hair was still damp an hour later as I sat cross-legged on the bed. Locke was in the study, probably still buried in some tedious artifact-related paperwork.

I tried to read, but the letters ran together and the sentences stopped making sense after a few minutes, so with a bored sigh I tossed the book back onto the bedside table, nearly knocking over the small vial of purplish potion I was supposed to drink. It was the last one for the day, meant to keep the nightmares at bay. 

It made me sleepy. Locke would have wanted me to drink it and then sleep.

Locke was obsessed with rest these days.

I sighed, likely for the hundredth time that evening, and let myself flop back onto the bed, nearly banging my head on the headboard.

I took brews that dulled my magic a little, but I could feel it there—familiar, friendly, pleasant, with a quiet hum under my skin. I raised a hand slowly. The light sphere I summoned required almost nothing more than a thought. It hovered, casting a warm light. 

I took a shaky breath.

Nothing hostile. Nothing dangerous. Just light, warm and familiar. 

My magic. 

I let the sphere drift upwards. Another flicker of thought, a tiny twitch of my finger, and a second sphere joined the first. Then a third. 

I waited for the dread, for the darkness, for the pain—but it didn’t come. 

My magic was so soft. So nice. So perfect. 

When, hours later, Locke entered the bedroom, I was lying on my back, tears drying on my cheeks, staring up at the thousands of tiny light spheres swirling above me like constellations in the night sky. 

Locke stopped in the doorway, still and silent for a long time. I didn’t move my eyes from the lights, but I could feel his gaze on me.

A soft sigh. “You were supposed to drink your potion,” he said quietly, closing the door behind him with a small sound.

I sniffed, swiping at my tears. “I know.”

Locke stepped closer, and I gulped, unconsciously dimming the light of the spheres as his gaze fell on my face. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Fine.”

Locke tilted his head.

“Strange,” I added. 

Strangely fine. 

“William…” murmured Locke.

I huffed, turning my head aside. “None of this feels normal.”

His steps were quiet on the carpet. He sat down on the edge of the bed, putting a light hand on my shoulder. 

“What I meant,” he said slowly, “is that you have been wearing those armbands for a long time.” His fingers squeezed my shoulder a bit. “You might think your magic is dangerous, but that’s not true, William.” His thumb traced slow circles through the fabric of my shirt. “Your magic is an integral part of you. It’s allowed to feel normal. To feel good. It’s supposed to.”

I didn’t reply, just stared up at the slowly swirling constellations of the light spheres, listening to the faint hum of the magic surrounding us.

Locke followed my gaze, his hand tapping my shoulder lightly. “It’s all right. You should be careful, though. Take it slowly. Try to put them–”

I flicked my hand, and the tiny stars blinked out at once, leaving the room lit only by the orange glow of the fireplace.

“…out slowly,” Locke finished with a quiet exhale. He gave me a look, but I just shrugged. 

“Isn’t it exhausting?” he asked. “It’s natural if you get tired more quickly now–”

“No,” I cut in. “I could easily put out every single light-sphere in the Sanctum at once. Probably in the whole city?”

He lifted his own hand, summoning a single, steady light above us, soft and warm. Then he reached for the vial on the bedside table and held it out towards me.

“Drink.”

“What will… What will happen if I stop taking the potions?” I pulled the cork slowly out from the small bottle. “Not this, the ones that… the ones for my magic, I mean.”

The ones keeping my magic in check right now.

Locke walked to the other side of the bed, sliding his coat off his shoulders.

“Please don’t dismiss the idea outright,” he said, as he slowly began undressing. “But I think a talisman could still help you learn to control your power safely.”

I made a face, partly because I had just swallowed the slightly bitter potion, and partly because of what he said.

“Just think it over,” Locke added. I tried to keep a neutral expression as he unbuttoned his shirt. “All right?”

“Of course,” I muttered as he put his shirt aside.

I blinked heavily as he folded all his clothes neatly, then quickly changed into his nightclothes. The potion was spreading quite quickly through my body, and I felt my limbs grow heavy, my eyes taking longer and longer to open after each blink. Locke crawled into bed and extinguished the light sphere.

“I’m glad they’re not on me anymore,” I muttered, touching the bare skin of my wrists as Locke adjusted the blanket over my shoulders.

He was quiet for a while as he settled in. “Me too,” he said softly.

“If I’d known all it would take was being struck by lightning…”

Even in the dark I could sense him scowling at me. “William.”

I just smiled into my pillow and moved closer, so he could put his arms around me.

Time felt both unnervingly fast and painfully slow as the days went by.

“I thought it would be… different,” I’d said to Locke one day when he had decided it was a good idea to give me alchemy lessons again.

“Different? As in you measuring the ingredients correctly so you didn’t end up with that sludge stuck to the bottom of your cauldron?” He lifted a brow.

“No,” I grumbled, glancing down at the thick, yellowish-green sludge in question and waving it off. “Just this… everything.”

Locke’s face settled into that cautious, slightly worried, slightly solemn expression he always wore around me these days, so I knew at once that he understood what I meant.

He cleared away the ruined remains of my potion with a quick gesture of his hand, and reached across the table to take the recipe book from me.

“What should be different?” he asked quietly.

“It’s just…” I rolled a piece of cactus root between my fingers (which I’d forgotten to add to the potion somewhere back at the beginning). “The Dusk is supposedly gone. I don’t have to worry about accidentally summoning them anymore. In theory everything’s fine, isn’t it? I’d think this would be… a happy moment?”

Locke’s face looked infinitely gentle and sad, so I turned away, hastily putting the vials and bottles back on the shelf.

“Everything’s just… the same,” I went on. “You know, I shall just study diligently and persistently, blah blah.” My hands were shaking a little, and one of the bottles slipped through my fingers. I caught it just before it hit the shelf. “Somehow… I don’t know. It just feels strange. Not right.”

Locke hummed quietly, reaching for a vial himself. “It doesn’t go back to feeling right just because the danger is over,” he said, pushing the cork carefully back to its place.

I rolled my eyes, gulping. “It should.”

The howling storm. The Dusk’s claws between my thoughts. Locke’s blood blending with the rainwater. 

My stomach twisted, and I sank down onto the chair, resting my elbows on the table and letting my head fall into my hands.

“People died,” I muttered, staring at the scorched surface of the old desk. “People died because of me.”

“No.” Locke’s voice was sharp and firm. The glass clinked loudly as he put the last bottle back on the rack. “The Dusk killed those people. Not you.”

I huffed, my voice dry, humorless. “What a convenient distinction.”

“It’s true.”

I shook my head. “It was my magic. I could feel it. They were stronger… faster. They used my magic, my power, to kill more people.”

Locke’s jaw tensed. “It’s not—”

“I know what happened.” I dug my nails into my temples. “You can’t convince me otherwise.”

“The Dusk is powerful and merciless,” Locke said carefully, stepping around the desk. “Their rise was a tragedy. One no one could have foreseen, let alone prevented.”

“That’s rather hard to believe,” I said, my voice trembling a bit. “Considering they came because of me.”

Locke exhaled slowly. “You fought to live. You fought the Dusk. You fought harder than anyone I have ever seen. You won.”

“Splendid,” I said.

His voice softened a little, and he reached out a hand to my shoulder. “You survived something incredibly dangerous. You were hit by lightning, drowning in a storm, in darkness, and you have still found a way back towards light. That’s unimaginable strength and fortitude.”

My chest felt tight. The words were soft and quiet, but clear: “Maybe I shouldn’t have survived.”

I could feel Locke’s body tense beside me. “Don’t.” His voice was as quiet as mine, but carried a powerful edge. “Don’t ever say that again.”

I didn’t look up. My nails dug into the wood of the table. “It’s true.”

“It is not.” 

I shook my head. “But if I have just died earlier, then–”

“No.” His voice dropped lower, steadier, dangerous. “You are here. You are alive. That is not a mistake, and I will not let you treat it like one.”

“But if I–”

“Then even more people in the capital would have died that night.” His words came fast now, steady and certain. “You were the one who ended it, who saved all those lives. You. Not the Council, not the magicians in the city, not the royal guard. You were the only one who managed to stop the Dusk. That’s incredible and courageous. I wish more than anything that this had never happened, but I am also immensely proud of you.”

The scent of burnt herbs and my ruined potion still hung heavily in the air. I swallowed hard, staring at the empty cauldron. “It doesn’t feel like I deserve it.”

Locke’s fingers caught my chin, and turned my head towards him. His eyes were dark, his face solemn and serious. “You deserve to be alive,” he said. “You deserve to be alive and safe and happy.”

“I’m…”

“Can you repeat that after me?” His thumb brushed my cheek. “That you deserve to be alive?”

Tears welled up in my eyes. My throat ached, and I tried to swallow, chest shaking, breath shuddering. 

I shook my head.

Locke stayed silent. He just stepped forward, wrapped his arms around me, and held me close. I closed my eyes, leaned into the embrace, and cried silently.

“Royal protocol,” Locke had said in the morning.

“Bullshit,” I had said.

This was followed by a long and tedious argument, in which we both mostly just repeated the same things: Locke talked about safety and protection and obligations, while I talked about this being stupid and unnecessary and overbearing.

“Only when you leave the Sanctum,” Locke said, probably trying to sound comforting.

“I’ve been locked inside the Sanctum for half a year, and when I’m finally allowed out, you expect me to walk around with two guards on my heels?”

“Yes,” Locke said simply.

“Excellent,” I murmured, rolling my eyes. I imagined his writing desk blowing up, wiping that calm and final expression right off his face.

Locke told me seven times to take care, to be back at the Sanctum by noon, to avoid doing anything even remotely dangerous or reckless, to stay out of trouble, to generally behave like a sensible human being and avoid doing literally anything fun…

“What dangerous thing could I do in the city?” I asked.

“I’m not saying the city is dangerous, just that you should–”

“Take care, I know, I know,” I sighed.

The guards called me Your Highness.

Brenn, the taller one, seemed to have the patience and facial expression of a stone wall. Tamsin, on the other hand, looked like she wanted to arrest me in the second minute we met.

I couldn’t help wondering if she actually could. Or if they were just reporting my every step back to my parents.

We were just outside the Sanctum, Sol and me and the guards, on one fine morning when the sun was already bright, and the city was loud and alive and colourful. The air smelled of freshly baked bread and spring flowers and smoke. A horse neighed in the distance, people walked by and talked and laughed around us, and the wind brought the sound of soft music from somewhere.

The guards refused to just turn around and walk away. I made Sol suggest nice places to visit on the other side of the city, but they were not interested. They just followed us, slightly behind but always keeping me in eyesight. They seemed immune to bribes, immune to threats, and completely devoid of humour.

I even asked them to walk in front of us. We could go anywhere they want, just don’t keep staring at the back of my neck…

They refused, of course.

Still, the morning was quite nice. We visited the market, which was loud and alive and dazzling: stalls filled with everything from vegetables and spices to fabrics and simple household items to glowing trinkets and rare magical items. The air was crisp and filled with the smell of sweet fruit and fried dough, and we just wandered from stall to stall, and it felt almost an ordinary thing to do, to be outside and free and normal. 

We found a small alchemists’ market a few streets away, which had shelves lined with vials and powders and jars of pickled herbs gleaming in the sun, and it was so exciting and fascinating, I even considered starting to like alchemy. There was a small table selling rare minerals “explosive to varying degrees”, but Sol dragged me on before I could decide what purchase to make.

I had money now. I had an allowance, which was both annoying and ridiculous and exciting. I couldn’t really remember if I had ever bought anything for myself.

The old quarter was a maze of narrow cobbled streets and overhanging balconies, houses leaning so close they almost touched at the ornate rooftops. The sunlight danced in colourful strips on the walls, the light reflecting off the colourful stained-glass windows. We found a secondhand bookshop, tucked into one corner of those crooked little lanes, with shelves full of books and dust floating lazily in the dim light. The shop was tiny and the guards agreed (with great difficulty) to wait outside as I took my time running my fingers through the spines and reading a whole chapter from a book about some legend of an orchard that was supposed to appear on a hillside only in moonlight. 

I wondered how easy it would be to slip the small volume under my coat.

I wondered what face Locke would make if I returned with stolen books the first time I was allowed to leave the Sanctum, and this made me even more tempted to steal something.

But in the end we left the shop with empty hands (and empty coats). We walked down the riverside promenade, a wide street lined with flowering trees and little cafés and bakeries, and we bought pastries with honey and nuts and watched the small boats that drifted lazily past.

We climbed up the steep streets of the hill to the bell tower. The bell tower itself was ancient and crumbling, but after we climbed the narrow and slippery steps, the city stretched below us in a sea of red roofs and labyrinthine streets and vivid colours, with the background of the green meadows and faraway hills. I just stood there, still and silent, letting my eyes take in the view. 

Letting myself forget about the stupid guards, the stupid past, the stupid memory of the Dusk. 

I made sure we arrived back at the Sanctum just a little past noon.

Locke was at a Council meeting, so I spent the evening wandering in the deepest parts of the library. The little seeking charm swept along the shelves as I walked between the rows, the library utterly silent around me, and so deserted it felt as though not a single soul had set foot in this section for centuries. The shelves were tall and leaning; the books were dusty, the air still and stale. Somewhere in the distance, pages rustled as a few of the volumes occasionally gave themselves a little shake on their shelves.

The seeking charm was warm and ticklish around my fingers, and I let out a long sigh, closing my eyes for a moment as the magic flowed through me.

Light. Friendly. Mine.

In the end I found three books that mentioned magical storms in any detail. One turned out to be pure fantasy. Another was mostly gossip and speculation. The third contained a few scattered lines about storms that disrupt magic and make spellwork difficult, though even that read more like conjecture than fact.

By the time I turned the last page of the third book, I could barely keep my eyes open and realized it had to be quite late. I gathered up the three volumes and carried them through the dark, empty corridors of the Sanctum back to my room—adding them to the ever-growing pile—before hurrying on toward Locke’s quarters.

He was sitting in the lounge, in an armchair by the fire, a book in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. The wood crackled softly in the hearth, and the air was thick with the light, sweet scent of herbs.

Locke looked up as I entered. The light-sphere floating above his head cast shifting shadows across his face. One leg was crossed over the other. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, the flickering orange firelight gleaming on his forearms.

I swallowed hard.

Locke set his tea down on the table, fixing me with a slightly questioning gaze.

“Is everything all right?” he asked.

“Um,” I said, busying myself by closing the door behind me. “Of course.”

Locke hummed quietly. I shuffled closer, awkwardly twisting my fingers. 

The fire cracked. 

Locke seemed calm. His movements were slow as he closed the book in his lap. 

“We could talk for a bit,” he said. “Do you want to sit down?”

“Um,” I said. 

Locke put the book down and motioned toward the sofa.

I swallowed again, sitting down.

“How was the city?” he asked casually, standing up and stepping over to the table to pour some tea.

“Well…” I bent down to take off my shoes. “Good. It was nice. We went to the market. We climbed the hill.”

 “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.”

I pulled my legs up into a cross-legged position. Locke handed me a cup of tea, then picked up the blanket draped over the arm of the sofa and wrapped it around me.

It was warm and soft. Locke’s touch was gentle.

As if I could shatter at any moment.

I shifted a bit. “The guards are unnecessary. There’s no need for them to come with me next time.”

“We are not arguing about the guards,” Locke replied simply as he settled back into the armchair.

“I’m not arguing,” I shook my head, taking a sip of tea. “I’m just saying they don’t need to escort me. Now it’s clear everything’s safe, so—”

“Will.” Locke’s voice carried a hint of reprimanding. “We are not arguing about the guards.”

I groaned and leaned back, rubbing at my eyes with my free hand.

“How was the rest of your day?” Locke asked, picking up his own cup.

“Good,” I replied with a shrug. “We came back from the city. I had lunch. I went to Rowland’s class in the afternoon. Then I studied a bit. Had dinner. And then… I was at the library. I kind of… lost track of time. Sorry.” 

“It’s fine,” Locke said lightly, sipping his tea, looking at me over the rim of his cup. 

“We didn’t get back from the city by noon,” I blurted out.

Locke took another small sip, then lowered his cup slightly, cradling it between both of his hands. 

I sat perfectly still, staring into the fire.

“Is that a problem?” he asked.

My chest tightened slightly. I took a deep breath, pressing my palm against the warm surface of the mug. “Well, you were the one who said we should be back by noon.”

A small silence stretched between us. I could feel him watching me.

“Did something happen?” he asked at last. “Was there some kind of problem that held you up?”

I laughed—the sound was dry and hollow. “What kind of problem could there have been? We were just walking around in one of the safest cities in the whole world. Those bloody guards were on our heels the entire time. Obviously nothing happened.”

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

I frowned. “That’s not the point.”

His voice was far too gentle. “It might be.”

I tore my gaze away from the flames flickering in the fireplace and stared at him. “You’re not even a little annoyed?”

“You stayed out because you were having fun. I won’t–”

The blanket wrapped around me suddenly felt unbearably hot, and I struggled to throw it off. “I stayed out to annoy you!”

I wanted to see shock, surprise, anger on Locke’s face. A raised brow. A scowl.

Instead, his expression turned so soft, so tender, I could have screamed. Or burst into tears. Or blown something up.

“Will—” he began.

“Forget it,” I snapped, flinging the blanket aside and tossing my mug onto the nearby table.

Locke said something, but I couldn’t hear him over the pounding of blood in my ears as I stormed towards the bedroom. I slammed the door behind me.

When Locke came in half a minute later, I was already lying under the blanket, pretending to be asleep. He sat down on the edge of the bed and placed his hand on my back. I jerked away, pulling the blanket higher until I was almost completely hidden beneath it.

Locke sat in silence for a long time. His hand was warm and heavy between my shoulder blades, rising and falling slightly with each breath I took. He seemed calm, patient. Like he had all the time in the world just to sit there with me and gently pat my back. 

It was unbearably annoying.

“I’m not angry,” he said at last. “Not about today. Not about anything.”

“Well, you should be,” I muttered into the pillow. 

Locke sighed quietly behind me. “It would be good if you could get some sleep,” he said softly.

I rolled onto my back with an irritated growl, tangling myself in the blanket and knocking a few pillows to the floor.

“I can’t,” I hissed. “There’s this bloody feeling…” I waved my hands towards my chest, uselessly, fingers trembling, “like everything’s just…shaking… and sometimes I just want to explode, or throw things, or set the world on fire, anything, just…”

I couldn’t finish. I made a choked sound, half laugh, half sob, and rolled back onto my side, burying my face in the pillow.

Locke’s hand stayed on my shoulder while I cried. He didn’t say anything for a long time, just stayed there, solid and quiet and warm.

“I’m sick of crying,” I muttered after a while, my face smashed into the pillow, my voice muffled, hoarse. “I’m so bloody tired of it.”

“Crying is a perfectly natural thing,” Locke replied softly, moving his hand slowly across my shoulder.

“Still feels like shit,” I mumbled.

“Healing takes time.”

“I don’t want it to take time.”

“Time, yes,” Locke murmured, his fingers brushing lightly through my hair. “And kindness.”

I felt the mattress dip slightly as he leaned closer. He still smelled like the herbs from the tea, and slightly like smoke and soap and old paper. His hand shifted on my shoulder, his breath stirred the hair at my temple—and then there was the gentlest touch as his lips pressed a quiet kiss to the top of my head.

Everything inside me went still for a brief moment.

“Try to sleep, darling,” he said quietly. “I will wash up and change, and join you in a minute. All right?”

I tried to swallow, my fingers curling into the corner of the blanket. I gave a small nod. 

His hands lingered for a heartbeat, one still on my back, the other lightly in my curls, before he stood. 

The sound of his steps across the room. The soft rustle of fabric. The small creak of the floorboards. 

I pressed my face deeper into the pillow. The bedroom was warm, the fire crackled low, throwing long shadows across the walls. My chest ached, my eyes stung, my brain hurt inside my skull—still, my eyelids started to feel heavy.

The mattress dipped again. Locke slid under the duvet. A moment later an arm slipped around my waist, steady and warm and protective.

The trembling inside me eased a little.

I buried myself into the pillows, into the warmth of the bed, into the safety of his embrace. I took a deep breath, feeling the air fill my lungs, feeling my breathing grow easier, lighter. 

I stared into the firelight flickering faintly against the far wall.

It was so cosy. So kind. So gentle.

I did not deserve this.

 

Chapter 60: Research

Summary:

Will presents his research to the Council.

Notes:

I’m so sloooooow. But I’m working on this!

“So that’s it? Nothing? We’ve found nothing?” I snapped the last book shut in front of me, thoroughly disappointed.

“We’ve found loads,” Sol said, shaking his head as he pushed his meticulous notes towards me. With a sigh, I picked up the parchment and skimmed the titles and quotations and source references we’d already gone over a million times by then.

“Half of this is just speculation,” I grumbled. “And the other half was written by people who hated the Council. I don’t think they count as reliable sources.”

“Just because someone hates the Council doesn’t mean they can’t be reliable,” Sol said, shrugging.

“I mean… I don’t think the Council would consider them reliable,” I corrected myself.

“You’ve gathered enough material to fill a small library,” Gavin cut in. “If you’re scared of facing the Council, maybe the problem isn’t the literature, but—”

“Remind me,” I growled, “why did I even ask you for help in the first place?”

“That I don’t know,” Gavin replied, leaning back in his chair. “Least of all why I agreed.”

I stretched my neck, tired. We were sitting deep in the library, in a tiny, tucked-away reading room. Sol was leafing through one last book, Gavin sifting through a pile of letters. I sighed and went back to browsing my notes.

No matter how large a library we could have filled with our collected materials, it still felt as though we had nothing. Nothing solid. A scattering of throwaway lines across two hundred different books. Notes and diary fragments and travelogues. We’d even found a recipe book and three volumes of poetry that contained the faintest hints about magical storms.

“So what we know after three weeks and exploring the deepest, dustiest corners of the library,” I muttered, “is that for some reason there are some kinds of storms that somehow influence magic. And you want me to barge into a Council meeting with that, demanding justice and reforms?”

“You won’t be barging in,” Sol said. He pulled one of my notepages in front of himself, placing it beside the open book. “You have an appointment. You will arrive prepared, and they will hear you out. There will be no ‘barging in’ involved.”

“Alas,” Gavin sighed. “Even though I was in favour of barging in. It would have been so fun to watch the fallout.”

“Oh, shut up,” I waved a hand.

“Truly, we know quite a lot,” Sol said once he’d scribbled something new at the bottom of the parchment. “It should be more than enough information to make the Council at least consider that they… might be able to handle things a bit better.” He gathered our notes into a neat stack, then closed his book and stood up with a sigh. “It’s very late. We’ve written down everything important. Let’s go to bed.”

“Add this as well,” Gavin said quickly, fluttering one of the letters. “Half of it is a disgusting love confession, but it mentions that during the night, in the storm, magic’s effect was strangely weakened.” He flipped the letter over to check the date. “In the eighteenth year of Queen Kenna’s reign.” He glanced at me. “Wasn’t she, like, your grandmother?”

“She lived about two hundred years ago,” I pointed out, while Sol noted down the new information and added the letter to the pile. He pushed a stack of books towards me, handed another to Gavin, and carefully lifted the third himself, notes perched on top. I stifled a yawn as we headed for the exit.

 

We were in the deepest, least-frequented chambers of the library. The shelves stretched all the way to the ceiling; some of the books on them toppled over, the rest were dusty and disordered. Abandoned piles of books sat in the corners, and it was so dark that without our light-spheres we wouldn’t have seen as far as the tips of our noses.

“Which way did we come from?” Sol asked as we wound our way between the towering shelves, into a small chamber where four tall, ornately carved doors opened in every direction.

The new amulet pulsed warmly against my neck as I opened one of the doors, levitating the stack of books beside me. The corridor behind it was long and high, the walls on both sides lined with shelves stacked to the ceiling with parchment scrolls. When I sent one of my light-spheres ahead, a cold wind blasted out of the corridor, carrying with it a low sound vaguely reminiscent of laughter.

“That’s… sinister,” Gavin whispered.

 “It’s not,” I shrugged. “You’re just jumpy. Come on, it’s shorter this way.”

We set off down the corridor in the faint glow of the spheres. The air down here felt heavy—dusty, stale, old. Our footsteps echoed in uneven rhythms.

This was actually happening. I had truly arranged a meeting to appear before the Council and  put forward my request…

“So,” Sol had said a week ago, “I’d like to emphasise again that requesting a hearing from the Council is probably a very…”

“Good idea?” I had finished with a snort. “Yes, you have said this a few times already.” 

Sol had let out a long sigh. “I’m not even talking about the trouble you could get into—though you could get into serious trouble, obviously…”

“Oh, Locke is going to kill him,” Gavin had said with a grin.

“He absolutely won’t.” I had waved the thought away. “Locke will do nothing but fret about whether I’m getting too tired while I stand before the Council, or something like that.”

“All I’m saying,” Sol had growled, his tone tinged with some impatience, “is that some of the Councillors might be a bit less open to what you have to say if they see you bursting in without permission. Just… consider it.”

I had only rolled my eyes.

But well, I did ask for a hearing.

I shook the memory away as we reached a junction: a tall archway shaped like a keyhole. To the right it was pitch black, to the left a strange bluish light illuminated a room full of low shelves.

My ears rang slightly in the endless silence as we stood there, turning our heads from side to side.

“Please tell me we haven’t wandered back into the ‘Do Not Disturb (Ever)’ archives,” Gavin muttered.

“No,” I said quickly. “That’s at least three levels further down.”

“And that’s not what it’s actually called,” Sol added.

“It absolutely is,” Gavin and I said at the same time.

After a brief debate we decided to take the dark corridor. It was short, followed by a massive hall, then a long empty passageway, then another narrow corridor…

“We should have reached the stairs by now,” Sol said as we arrived at the door at the end of the corridor. Gavin hugged his books to his chest with one hand and pushed the door open.

“Well, there is a staircase,” he observed.

Sol and I stepped forward to peer inside. A staircase did indeed begin beyond the door—only it led downwards.

“We’re meant to be going up,” Sol said, shaking his head.

 “I’m not turning back,” I said, and with a flick of the floating books beside me I strode down the steps.

The staircase led to a chamber so small the three of us could hardly fit in. There were a few books. An empty candle holder. A skull sitting on a small, round table. 

“Nice place,” Gavin muttered.

“But where do we go now?” Sol asked.

A small but thickly woven rug lay on the floor. A corner of something was visible beneath it. I nudged it aside carefully with the tip of my boot, revealing a trapdoor wedged into the floor.

“Well, no,” Gavin declared as I crouched beside the trapdoor. “No, Will. Don’t even think about it.” The trapdoor creaked loudly, raising a cloud of dust as it opened. Beneath it was complete darkness.

“Close it,” Gavin continued. “We’re turning back.”

“Don’t be such a coward,” I muttered, sending a small light sphere down through the trapdoor. A ladder led down into a seemingly empty corridor lined with bare stone walls.

“No,” Gavin said firmly. “We’re not repeating the Quizzitorium incident.”

I stifled a laugh. “The Quizzitorium was fun.”

“That book wanted to slap you in the face when you got an answer wrong!”

“Well, it didn’t.” I shrugged.

“Because you damn well ducked!” exclaimed Gavin. “So it hit me instead! That wasn’t fun at all!”

I chuckled and let my left foot down onto the top rung of the ladder. “Let’s go,” I said. 

Gavin spun to Sol.

“What do you think?”

“Well,” Sol stepped closer, peering down at the corridor at the bottom of the ladder beside me, “it wouldn’t hurt to see where it leads.”

“I can’t believe this,” Gavin shook his head. “You should be the last person to get involved in these daft ideas.”

“Come on, Gavin,” I said, rolling my eyes as I started down the ladder, my stack of books hovering beside me.

“Councillor Aman would know if anything dangerous were in the library,” Sol stated.

“I reckon no living soul has set foot here in years,” Gavin muttered as Sol crouched by the trapdoor, feeling for the top of the ladder with his foot.

“Oh, I’d say centuries,” I said. My voice echoed cheerfully between the bare stone walls.

By the time I reached the bottom of the ladder, my palms were starting to ache from the climb. Sol followed silently, and Gavin brought up the rear, grumbling under his breath.

“If another book attacks me, I swear, Will, I’ll kill you in the most painful way possible.”

“Hah,” I snorted. “Terrifying.”

“Or…” Gavin’s voice dropped a little. “I tell Councillor Aman that you still can’t find that book. The one you lied about returning ages ago.”

Sol, walking ahead of me, hissed. I felt my blood drain from my face.

“You wouldn’t,” I whispered.

“Oh, I would,” Gavin replied. “Just watch.”

I swallowed hard but didn’t answer. Our footsteps echoed around us as we walked: the corridor stretched straight and seemingly endless, the bare stone walls empty and dry. The light spheres cast a faint glow along the way.

Doors appeared on either side from time to time. I was tempted to go look around, but Gavin shut that down immediately: “Absolutely not. Let’s just get to bed finally. You can play explorer tomorrow.” I told him he was being boring and cowardly, but Sol thought too that it was late and we should focus on getting out, so in the end, we left the doors untouched.

What a missed opportunity.

Seemingly an eternity later, we finally reached the end of the corridor. There, another ladder led up to a second trapdoor—this one hidden not beneath a rug, but under a fully stocked bookshelf. The spells we used to get out were perhaps a little too powerful: in the end the entire shelf toppled, sending books flying everywhere. I could barely stifle my yawns as we stood the shelf upright and, to the best of our ability, returned the books according to the system. 

At least we knew where we were. Ten minutes later, we were back in my room—barely able to enter because of the piles of books on the floor. We set down our newest acquisitions and said goodnight.

The Sanctum was deserted, dark and silent, as I hurried towards Locke’s rooms. He was already asleep; I undressed quietly and crawled under the covers beside him, pressing my ice-cold feet against his warm calves.

Locke didn’t wake, just wrapped his arm around me in his sleep, holding me close.

The Council Chamber was huge and imposing, with the afternoon sun filtering through the stained glass window. It felt much warmer than usual, and I could feel sweat gathering beneath my collar. I fought the urge to adjust it and clasped my hands behind my back instead. The Councillors sat around me in their high semicircle, eyeing me with mixed expressions as Ashmore welcomed me before the Council and granted me permission to speak.

In the past, almost all the times I had been here, it was for a disciplinary hearing. Now, even though I had an appointment, even though I wanted this, even though I had prepared for it—it didn’t feel any different. 

Narrowed eyes. Thoughtful looks.

Ashmore’s voice, clearing her throat as she called on me a second time to begin speaking.

I flinched, then straightened up with a deep breath, fixing my gaze on Ashmore.

“Thank you for hearing me out,” I began. “I am here to speak regarding the magical storm that struck the capital city…” I swallowed, “um… that night.”

A faint stir.

Shit, this isn’t starting off well.

I kept my gaze fixed ahead, somewhere on the lectern in front of Ashmore, but even so, I could sense the Councillors exchanging glances and whispering to each other.

I twisted my fingers behind my back, clearing my throat, trying to think back to the phrases Sol helped me write. My heart throbbed in my chest painfully, but when I spoke, my voice sounded loud and clear. “My purpose is to recommend that the Council establish a formal initiative to study magical storms. If the Council could understand their causes, their frequency, and their impact on magical stability, then it might be possible to predict them. To prepare.”

Murmurs. Ashmore tilted her head. “Continue,” she said.

Not an immediate refusal. Good.

“I have a list of more than a hundred sources from various authors and different eras confirming that these special magical storms have been present throughout our history for many centuries, causing, in some cases…” I swallowed, “...tragic consequences.” I took a steadying breath. “The most detailed descriptions can be found in the Flying Annals of Arcane Phenomena, third volume; the Chronicles of Ilmar’s Weather-Witches; and the Late Disciples of the Sunflower God.” I paused. “All these accounts, though separated by time and place, describe the same phenomena, and–”

A sharp voice interrupted. “The academic credibility of those texts is quite uncertain,” an elderly Councillor on my right, called Harris, said. “Folk accounts and bardic recollections are hardly factual.”

My hands were clenched into fists. I slowly unclenched them, taking a deep breath.

“With respect, Councillor,” I said, keeping my voice steady, “even if the sources are inconsistent, the patterns they reveal are clear. Ignoring them leaves us vulnerable to disasters that could have been anticipated.”

A wave of murmurs. I let my gaze travel across the Councillors’ faces: many looked sceptical, one shook his head, another seemed outright furious. On the far left someone looked as though he was asleep.

At the same time, there were curious looks as well. Serious ones. Inquisitive ones.

Councillor Niobe leaned forward. “His point is not entirely invalid.”

A white-haired Councillor scoffed. “His point is speculative.”

“Speculation is not inherently without value—” Councillor Arfinnr was shaking his head, while half the chamber spoke at once:

“It is invalid when the speaker has a documented history of impulsive behaviour—”

“I don’t think we are here to discuss his conduct—”

“He defeated the Dusk!”

“…talent…”

“Power is nothing without—”

“But what are we even talking about now…”

“The Dusk…”

The Dusk’s tendrils, nesting between the lobes of my brain.

I shook my head, trying to focus. The Council Chamber was stifling; sweat ran down my back, my collar felt suffocating, my hands trembled. The sun shone through the colourful glass panels depicting the Torch of Enlightenment, casting the Councillors’ long shadows across the marble floor.

Locke sat silently, his gaze fixed on me. He gave a small smile when our eyes met.

I forced my voice to remain calm. “As I said, the records are inconsistent, but together they reveal—”

“We cannot base our work on bedtime stories,” said Harris.

“Reviewing the literature is always useful,” Aman remarked quietly. “There may be truth in what he says.”

“You’re absolutely right, Allois, except he is not talking about scientific literature…”

“Even so, we cannot deny the risks inherent in the storms…”

“He is an apprentice. Barely trained…”

“He has proven more than once that…”

“Responsibility…”

“Transgressions…”

“The Dusk…”

Voices rose, overlapping, sharp and fast.

Ashmore lifted a hand. “Allow him to finish.”

I inhaled, keeping my eyes on Locke. His face was calm. Encouraging.

“I am not claiming that my research into the storms is complete,” I said. “But there is more than enough material to support that what happened in the capital was not unique. I value and deeply respect the work of this Council…” Though I can’t imagine how you accomplish anything amid this constant arguing. “That is precisely why I’m asking you to investigate formally. With proper resources, proper access, proper archivists and researchers, we could learn the true nature of these storms and prepare safely for their possible recurrence.”

Councillor Aman nodded, fingers interlaced on the table before him. “He’s right about one thing: we cannot rely on fragmented folk narratives.”

More murmuring. Some nodding. Some shaking heads. One Councillor was taking notes.

Harris let out a loud snort. “Precisely why I cannot understand why we would base anything on a child’s fantasies…”

“With respect, Councillor,” I cut in, “arguing that my conclusions are invalid solely because of my age is an example of the ad hominem fallacy. My reasoning and evidence stand independently of my years.”

His nostrils flared. “Maybe you are not a child, but you haven’t earned your place yet–”

“He defeated the Dusk!” someone shouted, but Harris carried on, unfazed:

“No wisdom. No discipline. Your greatest talent thus far seems to be inventing new ways to land yourself in trouble…”

“And your greatest talent, Councillor,” my voice sounded far too loud, far too sharp in my own head, “seems to be dismissing inconvenient truths before you are forced to look at them.”

For a moment there was stunned silence in the Hall.

Good. Eat that, you pompous old fool.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Locke’s eyes narrow.

Then–

“You insolent boy,” Harris hissed. “You mistake boldness for understanding.”

“Well, Councillor, with respect–”

“No. The problem, apprentice, is that you lack historical training. You lack the slightest grasp of how governance works. You take a handful of contradictory anecdotes and spin them around in that over-imaginative mind of yours–”

I cut in before I could stop myself. 

“No, Councillor. I think we all know very well that the real issue is that the Council has found it more important to maintain a good image than to address the storms at all.”

There was a tense silence.

Good.

I took a deep breath. 

“You accuse me of relying on anecdotes,” I said steadily, “but we all know why I have no better sources.”

A few heads lifted. A few shoulders stiffened. Locke tilted his head.

“The reason we cannot find scientific descriptions, categorised records, or official logs of the magical storms is that the Council never had any interest in admitting their existence. After all, magic is strong, isn’t it? Magic is stable. Magic is always reliable… or so the kingdom must believe. Because if magic falters, even once, even for a moment…” I swept my gaze across the chamber. “The people might begin to question the Council.”

Loud murmurs.

“This is not…”

“Isn’t he right, though?”

“The Council is strong.”

“This storm was a tragic accident, nothing more.”

“Although…”

“It poses a danger.”

“Knowledge should always be our priority.”

“The Council stays strong.”

“This is exactly what happened with the Dusk too!” My voice rose before I could stop it. “For centuries, the Council pretended the Dusk was some exalted triumph that led the kingdom to glory, when in reality it was the darkest moment in our history. So dark that the Council chose to have the circumstances of the Dusk’s creation forced into secrecy by magic, rather than study it and learn how to control it… and now, well, it’s kind of convenient that the Dusk showed up, isn’t it? Who cares how many people died, at least there is a convenient excuse for every horror that happened that night…”

Blood on the stone. Rain. The flooding river. Darkness split by lightning…

I clenched my fists.

No, no, no. Not now.

I gulped, trying to clear my head. 

Harris was still talking, but I could hardly hear him over the blood pounding in my head. “...that boldness is not wisdom. You are young. You speak without restraint–”

My tongue moved before I could think through my words. “If I were to speak without restraint, I would have called you a stubborn, short-sighted old fool a long time ago.”

A moment of silence—then the Chamber erupted.

“Outrageous…!”

“How dare you!”

“Without discipline…”

“...gets in trouble again and again.”

“Still, his point…”

“...so insolent.”

“The truth is, although…”

Among all that chaos, Locke was sitting perfectly still, watching me in silence. His face was absolutely unreadable. 

Ashmore’s gavel struck the lectern sharply, and the Chamber fell quiet.

“Councillor Locke,” she said, not taking her eyes off me. “I hope the misconduct of your apprentice will be dealt with.”

“Of course,” said Locke lightly.

I gulped. 

They were all watching me expectantly.

Fuck.

“I’m… sorry,” I forced out. I kept my eyes on Ashmore, refusing to apologise to Harris. “I just… I would never question the wisdom of the Council.” I took a deep breath. I have to stay calm for them to take me seriously. “All I seek is understanding, preparation, and safety regarding these storms. I’m…I’m only asking the Council, humbly and respectfully, to consider establishing a formal initiative to study magical storms. So maybe tragedies like… like what happened in the capital… might be prevented.”

Tragedies like when I killed a bunch of people. I almost wanted the Councillors to say it out loud. To blame, to accuse…to lay charges against me…

Councillor Aman spoke first. “Regardless of tone, the apprentice is right about one thing: there is too little information about these storms. That alone warrants concern.”

“Knowledge should always be prioritised,” Arfinnr nodded.

“The storms are rare anomalies,” said someone else.

“We must be careful not to encourage reckless speculation…”

“We cannot ignore patterns…”

“Unnecessary…”

“—anomalies.”

“Discipline and careful study should always guide us.”

“He could do well with some discipline, too…”

Then a gruff voice: “I think he is right.”

I rolled my eyes. Of course Rowland would…

What?

Rowland cleared his throat—a low, gravelly sound that cut straight through the noise.

“We are not here to debate the apprentice’s character,” he said, voice rough as stone. “And frankly, whether he’s young, reckless, or runs his mouth more than he should, doesn’t matter in the slightest right now.”

I shifted from one foot to the other.

“Because on the matter that actually concerns us, he is right,” Rowland continued. I kept blinking up at him in disbelief. “The storms must be addressed. For centuries, we have allowed ourselves the comfort of insisting that magic is immutable. That it cannot falter. We acted like any disturbance is… inconvenient, and therefore better left unspoken.” His gaze moved slowly across the Councillors, weary and unflinching. “We all witnessed what happened the night the capital was struck. That is the cost of our denial.”

“What the Dusk did was—” Harris began.

“What the Dusk did was horrific,” Rowland barked over him. “And we can thank this first-year apprentice for putting an end to it—something none of us managed in centuries of sitting in these chairs.”

A harsh silence followed. Several Councillors shifted in their seats.

“If it takes an apprentice to beg us to take steps that should have been fundamental to the preservation of safety…” His gaze flickered to me. “...and we still refuse to act, then yes. We are fools.”

A stunned silence.

Rowland nodded once, curtly. “For my part, I support his request.”

No one moved for a moment. 

I could feel Locke’s gaze on me, and just in the moment our eyes met did I realise that I was biting my lips so hard I could taste blood. I wiped it away on the back of my hand, but the worry did not disappear from Locke’s face. 

The murmurs started again, but this time it sounded more like an actual conversation. I let out a breath, straightening my back once again, worrying my fingers behind my back. 

“We have always valued knowledge,” Councillor Aman was saying. “If William is correct about the gaps in the archives, that alone necessitates inquiry.”

“Exactly,” nodded Councillor Wigmar, folding his hands. “We must understand the nature of our weaknesses to defend against them.”

“Knowledge without prudence is dangerous,” said the Councillor who seemed to be asleep until this point. “But prudence without knowledge is—”

“—the death of progress, yes…”

More and more voices joined.

“History warns us—”

“As the great Mage Veltar wrote—”

“We must not repeat the failings of our ancestors—”

“Stability demands foresight—”

“We should form a subcommittee—”

“No, a full investigation—”

“Funding must be approved—”

“This may require revising several protocols—”

I blinked. They weren’t arguing about whether to do something anymore—they were arguing about how.

The knot in my stomach loosened a tiny bit. 

Locke was silent. I saw him exchanging a look with Rowland, and whatever silent conversation happened between them, it ended with Rowland shaking his head, and Locke looking at me… fondly? There was a small smile at the corner of his mouth. He seemed pleased. Proud. 

I swallowed, hoping I wouldn’t blush. 

The Councillors kept talking, their voices rising and falling around me. They were now quoting ancient philosophers and warnings from fairy tales written for children. 

“—as the Sage of Four Winds warned—”

“—stability requires knowledge—”

“—the Record of Balbfi clearly states—”

At last, Ashmore raised a hand.

“It seems,” she said, her voice steady and authoritative, “that the Council is ready to reach a consensus.” Ashmore’s gaze swept across the semicircle of seats. “All in favour of initiating a formal inquiry into the nature, history, and potential recurrence of magical storms, as proposed by Apprentice William, also known as Prince Arvil Thalen of Arundel… Raise your hand.”

My heart skipped a beat, but then there were hands raising… Locke’s the very first, then Rowland’s, Aman’s, Niobe’s, Arfinnr’s, Stone’s, Lisdin’s. Actually, all the Councillors who ever taught me lifted their hands, and many others too. With a dramatic sigh and a very angry look at me, even Harris raised his hand in the end. 

Ashmore nodded. “Opposed?”

There were four hands. One almost embarrassed, one very bored, and two looking at me with utter disdain. 

“The motion passes.” Ashmore’s gavel struck the desk once. Her eyes found mine. “Apprentice William, the Council thanks you for your initiative. You will provide the full extent of your research to the archivists and appointed scholars. A preliminary meeting will be held tomorrow to assign tasks and determine the scope of the inquiry.” 

I cleared my throat. “Thank you, Councillors,” I said, keeping my tone as steady as I could. “I am honoured that you have chosen to consider this matter. I will provide all my findings and assist the inquiry in any way required.”

Ashmore nodded, then closed her ledger with a snap. “Thank you, apprentice. This session of the Council is hereby adjourned.”

Everyone stood. Robes rustled. Papers shuffled. Conversations broke out; some excited, some wary, some simply tired.

A few nods.

A few raised brows.

A grunt from Rowland that could even be approval. 

A hand on my shoulder. I turned around—Locke. “You did good,” he murmured. “Come on. You need to eat lunch.”

“No, I’m not–”

“Lunch,” repeated Locke. “Then we will look at your research.”

 

Later that afternoon, I found myself in my room with the strangest company ever. Councillor Aman, three librarians, two scholars, Rowland, Locke, and myself, all packed in tightly between the stacks of books my friends and I had collected (well, my friend Sol and my acquaintance Gavin). 

“That is… a great many books,” said Councillor Aman, surveying my room with a raised eyebrow. 

“We… we checked everything out properly,” I muttered, quickly snatching a mug from the top of a stack of books and, with a swift spell, vanished the cold, days-old tea from inside it.

“I shall hope so,” Aman said, as he slowly looked over all the books. His voice was calm—only faintly threatening.

There were stacks of books on every available surface. Papers covered the desk in many layers. The bed was full of scrolls and notes and spare quills, and a small bottle of ink had tipped over earlier, leaving a blot on the sheet I had tried (and failed) to hide with a pillow that now lay on the floor. Under Locke’s pointed stare, I tried to discreetly kick a few stray pieces of clothing under the bed.

Locke stepped behind me. “Is that half a plate of dinner?” he asked softly.

I looked up at the plate balancing on the edge of the windowsill. Shit. One quick spell later, the plate was empty. “No,” I answered Locke’s question.

He muttered something under his breath. Meanwhile, the last scholar squeezed into the room, and under Aman’s lead they were already starting to go through the collected literature.

“Scrolls older than the Fourth Era to the desk.”

“Pattern-related folios by the bed.”

“Anything referencing astronomical anomalies—yes, there—no, not on the blanket…”

They asked for the notes. They went through everything. Page by page. Questioning every annotation, every reference, even the scribbles I had drawn in the margins.

We were halfway through the first page when it started getting dark outside, and it still seemed as though they would never run out of questions:

“Where did you find this passage?”

“What is this sentence referring to?”

“Is this footnote a joke, or is there really a crocodile living in the cavern beneath the Fungal Annex?”

By then I was sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaning my back against the edge of the bed, reading a book about the history of forgotten doorways that nobody seemed to need right then.

“Yes,” I replied, stifling a yawn as I turned the page. “It almost bit Gavin’s leg off.”

Aman’s eyes narrowed. Rowland just grunted again. Locke seemed amused—but then he bent down and took the book from my hands.

“It’s late,” he said, as I tried to grab the book back. “It’s time for William to go to bed.”

I felt my face flush. I was just about to protest when Locke cut me off with a raised hand.

“He’s still recovering.” He was talking to the others, but sent me a pointed look. “This day was long and exhausting. He shouldn’t even have had to stand for that long before the Council.”

“I’m perfectly fine,” I ground out between my teeth. “I can stand…”

“You are going to have dinner,” Locke said, handing the book to one of the librarians. “Then you are going to bed. You can continue helping with the work tomorrow.”

“But…”

“Now, William.”

I tried to glare at him, but he only looked back calmly, offering a hand. I took it with a sigh, letting him haul me to my feet. Councillor Aman gave a small, approving nod, muttering something about “considering the apprentice’s well-being.” I let Locke usher me towards the food, blushing, trying not to think about the fact that everyone seemed perfectly aware that I wasn’t staying in my own room tonight.

 

“So this is what you were doing every night in the library,” Locke said half an hour later, when I arrived in his lounge after having a quick dinner.

I shrugged, staring at the floorboards. The room was warm, and I stood close to the door, eyeing Locke as he sat in his armchair.

I was restless. Convincing the Council felt good—but my thoughts kept going back to other memories.

The darkness sweeping through the city. The Dusk in my veins. Rain, agony and death. 

“So…” I shifted my weight. “Ashmore said you should deal with my… misconduct?”

Locke hummed. 

I took a deep breath, squaring my shoulders. “So, when do you plan to do that?”

Locke raised an eyebrow, grabbing his bookmark and putting his book away. “I’m not going to punish you.”

“But Ashmore said—”

“I’m not going to punish you,” Locke repeated, patient but firm, standing up. “I’m proud of you. Your research was remarkably comprehensive, and it was an act of considerable bravery to bring it before the Council.”

“But I—”

“Now we are going to sleep.” He gestured towards the bedroom.

“But I called Harris an old fool!”

Locke snorted. “Harris is an old fool. He deserved it. You are lucky you haven’t had to deal with him more often.”

“But—”

“Shh.” He stepped beside me, placing a hand in the small of my back, gently guiding me towards the bedroom. “We are sleeping now, William.”

“I don’t want to sleep.” I was dragging my feet and tripped, but Locke caught me and steered me on toward the bedroom. My chest felt too tight, Locke’s hand too warm on my back. “You don’t understand…” He ushered me through the door, then closed it behind us. “You have to punish me.”

“No.” He pointed at my coat. “Start undressing.”

“But–”

“Your coat. Come on, it’s late.”

“You have to…”

“No.”

“But–” He was starting to remove his own coat, his movement calm, measured. He gave me a pointed look, but I just pulled my coat tighter around me, giving the floor a small kick with the toes of my left boot.” But– If I have to, I’ll go and call every other Councillor an old fool as well…”

“William.”

“I’ll start with Rowland!”

“Will.”

“In fact, I could start with you. You know what?” My voice cracked. “You’re a fucking old fool if you think—”

“That’s enough.” Locke’s tone cut cleanly through the air. Not angry, just final. He stepped closer. “It’s not going to work.”

I opened my mouth—but no words came. Locke was standing in front of me, unbuttoning my coat with steady fingers.

“You did remarkably well today,” he said quietly, his voice steady and warm. “You were brave. You stood before the Council and presented your research clearly, confidently, and thoughtfully. You did a really great job, William.”

I blinked, heat rising to my cheeks. “I…” I shook my head. “But I called Harris an old fool.”

Locke sighed, slipping my arm out of the coat sleeve. ‘It’s not the worst thing he has ever been called.”

I fidgeted, my hands twisting at the hem of my shirt. Locke gently pried my fingers away, reaching for the buttons, popping them free one by one.

“But—”  

“I know what you are doing.” Locke’s voice was firm, though slightly sad. He draped my shirt over the back of the chair and began unbuttoning my trousers. “You think this is about consequences you need to pay.” He slid the last button free and let my trousers fall loosely. He tapped the side of my knee. “Step out.”

I did, my chest tight, my breathing shallow. 

“Guilt is a heavy feeling, William,” he said quietly. “And you are allowed to feel it. Even when you have done nothing wrong. But you won’t make me punish you when there is nothing at all that would make you deserve punishment.”

My voice was small, barely audible. “But… the Dusk…”

Locke exhaled softly. He reached for my wrists slowly, as if giving me time if I wanted to pull away. He steered me gently towards the bed. 

“Sit,” he murmured.

I sat on the edge of the mattress, my breath a bit too fast, my eyes glued to the carpet on the floor. Locke leaned down until we were nearly at eye level, and took both my hands in his. His touch felt warm, steady. anchoring me in place.

“William…” he murmured. “Look at me, please.”

I did for a moment, then, biting my lip, I turned away again. Locke squeezed my hands gently, waiting for me to turn back.

“You did nothing wrong,” he said then. “I have told you this before, and I will tell you this as many times as you need. You were brave, you faced something ancient and cruel, something most magicians would never dare stand against, and you defeated it.”

My throat tightened. I wanted to shake my head, to tell him that he was wrong, that people died, but his gaze held me still, just blinking into his dark eyes. 

“And since then,” Locke went on, “you have worked harder than anyone could reasonably ask. You are keeping up exceptionally well in your studies. You did all this research about the storm in your free time. You stood before the Council today and changed the minds of some old, foolish people.” There was a small but proud smile at the edge of his mouth. “That’s no small thing, William. You are inspiring the Council to make good choices. You are making the Council better.”

I tried to swallow, but my throat felt too tight. The pressure kept building in my chest. 

Locke shifted his hands, releasing my palm to slide his thumb gently over my face.

“You are allowed to feel guilty, or sad, or overwhelmed,” he said. “You are allowed to feel all of this.” He rested a warm hand on my shoulder. “But feeling guilty doesn’t mean you deserve punishment. And I’m certainly not going to give you one.”

I fidgeted, looking away, then glancing back at him. 

Locke’s voice stayed low, careful. “I know guilt makes you reach for punishment. I know it feels unbearable.” His thumb brushed slowly back and forth, grounding. “But those feelings don’t mean you have earned punishment. They don’t justify it. Not this time. Not for this.”

He tilted my chin up just enough that I had to meet his eyes. “I’m not going to punish you for something that isn’t your fault, William.”

His eyes were on me, dark and deep and assessing. His fingers were warm on my chin.

My throat worked.

“Not even…” I mumbled, “for calling Harris an old fool?”

Locke tilted his head with a quiet chuckle. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Not even for that.”

“But you should,” I insisted, heat rising to my cheeks. “You really should.”

“I don’t think you are ready,” he said simply.

“I am,” I said, crossing my arms.

Locke raised an eyebrow, giving me an unconvinced look.

“Then perhaps,” he said slowly, “I’m not ready.”

My mouth opened. Then closed.

Locke’s hands slid to my shoulders, guiding me to lie down.

“Come on,” he murmured. “It’s late. Let us sleep.”

The room was dimly lit. Locke put out the light spheres, and the fire was low in the fireplace. I was lying on my back, staring up at the ceiling above the bed.

My body felt warm. Held. Safe.

Why couldn’t my mind feel like that too?

“I still don’t really feel like myself,” I mumbled.

Locke made a quiet sound of acknowledgement, his arm curling a bit tighter around my waist. The bed shifted as he turned slightly toward me. “That’s alright,” he said softly. “Healing isn’t about snapping back into who you were.”

I just grunted, burying my head deeper into the pillow.

His voice was warm against my hair. “Try not to worry about that,” he said quietly. “You did good today. You are doing good. And who you are…there’s nothing wrong with any of that. There’s nothing wrong with just being yourself.”

I sighed, closing my eyes.

We lay in silence for a long time. I listened to Locke’s breathing turning slower and slower. 

What if I’m not even sure what ‘being myself’ feels like?

Notes:

I’m really glad that you are still here! ❤️
Please tell me what you think, because I’m terribly uncertain about these last chapters 😩

Chapter 61: Grounding

Summary:

Will and Locke *talk* about things 👀

Notes:

I'm soooooo excited!!
I've spent a MONTH thinking about this chapter.
Is it still messed up? Probably.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy ❤️

My days felt way too normal.

Training. Breakfast. Lessons. Studying. Lunch. More studying, lessons with Locke, reading, research in the library. Rest, if Locke thought that was what I needed at the time. Dinner. Quiet evenings. Peaceful sleep.

Having peaceful sleep felt so annoying. Not like I missed having nightmares—but these tranquil nights felt wrong. I wasn’t even taking potions anymore. Locke burned some calming herbal mixture each evening, but apart from that there was no reason for my dreams to be so peaceful.

Sometimes a nightmare or two would at least have helped me believe that yes, this really happened. It’s real. It isn’t just something inside me.

Because when I was awake, I didn’t feel calm in the slightest. Councillor Aman and his librarians took all the collected books from my room to study them, excerpt them, build databases from them, and prepare further research; and suddenly there was nothing left for me to do. I no longer needed to haunt the library late into the night. Sometimes I still did, but it wasn’t the same.

It felt as though time passed differently inside me than it did outside. Sometimes faster. Sometimes slower. Sometimes just chaotically. 

“You are rushing,” Locke said during the morning’s training session. The weather was much warmer as summer approached, and the sun rose earlier too. The sun’s rays still didn’t reach the narrow inner courtyard early in the morning, of course, but at least it was no longer dark. My heavy cloak lay along the wall on a stone bench. “Slower. You need to watch my movements. Let’s try again.”

I stepped back with a bored sigh, rolling my tense shoulders. The blunt practice sword felt too heavy in my hand, and my forehead was damp with sweat. (Locke, naturally, looked perfectly composed, as always.)

He attacked, and I parried. Our swords thudded dully as they met; our footsteps echoed between the stone walls. Locke stepped to the right. I followed. Our swords clashed on the other side. Then Locke stepped forward and I stepped back; his blade slipped past my guard and stopped just short of stabbing me in the stomach.

With an irritated growl, I knocked it aside.

“You need to be fast and attentive,” he said, shaking his head. “Brute force will get you nowhere if your opponent is bigger and more experienced than you.”

“I’ll be sure to grow a few inches and age a decade, then,” I grumbled. 

Locke just tilted his head. He was silent for a moment, and I tried to glare back at him, sharp and angry, wishing for him to become sharp and angry too… “Again,” he said in the end. 

I scoffed, lifting my sword. I attacked without waiting for his signal. 

Locke parried smoothly, stepping inside my guard. I was just thinking about how infuriatingly easy it was for him, when his blade tapped mine aside, then hit my shoulder with a painful thud.

“Shit!” I exclaimed, stepping back, reaching for my aching shoulder.

“Again,” Locke said.

I narrowed my eyes. I came at him harder this time, faster, just momentum and resentment and all those restless feelings… But he blocked every strike, corrected my footwork with a lazy nudge of his boot, redirected my blade with precise, efficient movements of his sword. 

Calm. Impersonal. Maddening.

It made me tighten my grip until my knuckles ached.

“Focus,” he said quietly, stepping back and demonstrating the movement I had missed. “You are not paying attention to openings. You are just trying to force one.”

“I am paying attention,” I snapped, lunging again.

He disarmed me with a sharp twist of his wrist. My sword clattered against the stones.

Silence fell between the walls of the courtyard.

Locke looked at me, his breathing steady, his expression unreadable. 

My chest was heaving as I gasped for air.

Locke sighed. “Put away your sword. You are done for today. Go, have breakfast.”

“What?” 

“You are tired,” he said. “We will continue tomorrow.”

“No, we can–”

“Breakfast,” he said. 

I glared at him for a moment before I bent to retrieve my sword, my movements jerky, my steps stiff. I could feel his gaze on my back as I crossed the courtyard.

He looked so fucking concerned.

Not angry. Not disappointed. Not impatient.

Concerned.

Shit. 

 

I skipped the damned meditation that night, and spent my time in the library instead, falling asleep in a tiny reading nook with a book titled Egregious Spell Casters beneath my head. When I woke up, the chamber was pitch black and for a moment I had no idea where I was; and I just sat, motionless and terrified, my heart racing and the blood pounding in my head and the darkness coiling around my mind—

No. I sent up a light sphere, my fingers and my magic working almost on their own. 

I was in the library. There were shelves and books and cosy chairs around. 

I huffed, leaning forward and banging my forehead against the book.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Yawning and rubbing my face, I stood up. After a moment’s thought, I took the book with me. The corridors of the Sanctum were dark and deserted, and my stomach growled loudly as I climbed the stairs.

Locke was reading in his lounge, by the soft light of a hovering sphere. The fireplace was lit and the room looked soft and warm and welcoming—as always. 

When did this place become so annoyingly cosy?

“Good evening,” said Locke. He didn’t move; his fingers still held the book open, his body turned towards the light, though his eyes were on me.

“Evening,” I mumbled. 

“Have you had dinner?”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m not in the mood for this conversation now.”

I tossed my coat down on the sofa, and stomped towards the bedroom.

…Locke just reached out and caught my wrist.

“Have you had dinner?” he repeated.

“No,” I hissed, trying to get free.

“Why?”

I went still, frowning. Why is he asking questions instead of just telling me what to do?

“I wasn’t hungry,” I lied.

Locke took a deep breath. He closed his book to put it aside, and took my hand into both of his hands. “Will, you need to–”

“I fell asleep in the library,” I interrupted. “I went to the library to skip your stupid meditation session. I hate meditation and if you do nothing about it, I will skip it every single day.”

Locke raised an eyebrow. There was silence around us for a moment, and I could see him thinking, and I waited for him to argue—

He did not argue with me, though.

“Go take a bath,” he said.

I blinked. “What?”

“A bath,” he repeated, patting the back of my hand. “You are tired. You seem to be tense. A warm bath might help.”

“This is… ridiculous.”

“No,” he shook his head calmly. “It is not. Come on.”

He stood, and led me through the bedroom into the bath. He was slow, unhurried, testing the water with his hand. Steam began to rise in a strong, herby scent.

“I’ll have dinner brought up,” he said, as he put fresh towels by the tub. “It will be here when you are finished.”

I crossed my arms. “I told you I’m not hungry.”

“And I have told you many times not to lie to me, remember?”

He ran the back of his hand across my cheek, his touch gentle and soothing, his eyes dark and fierce, glaring at me. A shiver ran down my spine.

“We could–” I gulped. “We could talk more about it.”

Locke tilted his head. For a moment, he seemed sad. Understanding?

Then he shook his head. “Get into the water.”

A small kiss to the tip of my nose; then he was gone, the bathroom door closing behind him with a small thud.

I huffed, biting my lip. Then, having nothing else to do, I stripped off my clothes and slid into the hot water, my skin prickling as I sank down.

I stayed there far longer than I needed to, trying not to think about anything. When I finally dragged myself out, towelling off and dressing, Locke was already in bed, a tray of food waiting for me on the bedside table just as he promised. 

I ate the fucking dinner.

Then we went to sleep, but I was so anxious I spent half the night awake, tossing and turning under the blanket. 

 

This was maddening. Locke was going to drive me crazy with his stupid unreadable face and calm words and gentleness. 

I wanted to skip his training lesson, but then I realised that being late is so much more fun. I waited, lounging around and reading a bit, then showed up on the training ground fifteen minutes before the end of our usual session, cheerful and casual. And Locke was angry, I could see him flexing his jaw and taking a very long and very deep breath, probably even counting to ten in his head, or whatever else he did to calm himself—then he just sent me for my sword. We trained for exactly fourteen minutes, then, like this was perfectly normal and acceptable, he just told me to put my sword away and go to breakfast. 

Infuriating, it was. 

The next day he told me to use at least two different safety charms when trying the new runes I had created, so naturally I used none; and he told me that the practice is finished for that day and I should go have some rest. 

Some rest. Fuck you, Locke.

I woke him in the middle of the night by blowing up a jar of Fizzroot spores in the bedroom—one of the many jars he had confiscated during an artefact inspection and stored in his office until he finished the paperwork on it, and which he had told me at least ten times not to touch because it was extremely explosive. Locke took in the sight of the bedroom, now coated in greenish slime, his lips pressed into a thin line, his face unreadable. Then he drew a slow breath, closed his eyes for a moment…then made sure I wasn’t hurt, cleaned the mess with a few efficient spells, and tucked me back into bed, brewing a cup of calming tea so I could fall asleep more easily.

Asshole.

The next day, I blew up all the other jars of Fizzroot spores in his study while he was away. Slime dripped from the ceiling in sticky streams, coating books, papers, Locke’s whole writing desk and his dark blue carpets on the floor. A faint fizzing lingered in the corners as residual magic made the slime pulse and shimmer, filling the room with a horrible smell, like rotting eggs mixed with vinegar and old cheese. I left the office and went for lunch, the fizzroot spores floating silently in the air behind me.

When I went back, late in the afternoon, Locke was sitting behind his desk, working, and the study was clean and orderly. If the jars of Fizzroot spores hadn’t vanished from the corner, I would have thought nothing had happened.

I stood in the doorway for a moment, unsure what to do. 

Locke signed a paper, and put it aside. 

“You have some time until our meditation session,” he said. I stared at him; there was not a single drop of Fizzroot slime on his desk. Not on the walls. Not on the ceiling. The smell was completely gone. “You should maybe rest a bit.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it. Opened it again. “What the fuck?” 

He sent me a sharp look, one eyebrow raised, as he reached for his next paper. 

“Watch your tongue, please.”

My jaw dropped. Locke calmly pulled the parchment towards him and began scanning some data at the top.

“Damn it,” I said, breathing faster and faster. “What the hell else am I supposed to do?”

Locke sighed deeply, glancing up. “William…”

“No!” I shouted, slamming the door behind me with such force the walls shook. “No! I don’t care.” I stomped, then looked around for something to kick. Two steps later, I knocked over the chair in front of his desk.

“Will,” Locke said.

“You bastard,” I hissed. I swung my hand through the air: a quick spell, and the neatly stacked piles of documents on his desk scattered wildly around the room. The only thing I regretted was that the Fizzroot slime was gone, and his work hadn’t all stuck in that stinking, sticky, explosive mess. “You’ve punished me before for far less than this, so what the hell? What more am I supposed to do?”

Locke didn’t move from his seat. He didn’t even flinch. The room was silent, only the last few of his documents fluttered to the ground with a quiet ruffle. His dark eyes met mine, steady, unblinking.

“You are testing limits,” he said evenly. “I see that.”

“I don’t care about limits!” I shouted. “I don’t care! You used to punish me for far less! You used to do something! What the hell is different now?”

Locke inhaled slowly. “I will not let you turn discipline into penance.”

I blinked, stopping my pacing. “What?”

“I told you I won’t punish you for what the Dusk did, so you are trying to make me punish you for everything else. I see what you are doing, William, and I do not appreciate the manipulation.”

I went still, standing in front of his desk, my stomach in a tight knot, my heart hammering in my chest. 

My hands itched to do something, anything, to provoke a reaction.

I took a deep breath. “There are others, you know,” I said, forcing a crooked smile. “If you won’t do it.”

Locke’s gaze sharpened. “William.”

“I mean it,” I went on, crossing my arms over my chest. “I could make someone else punish me easily enough.”

He just raised an eyebrow.

“What about Rowland?” I said, trying to strike a casual tone. “I’m sure I could manage that. I could explode the Fizzroot in his office. Or simply just steal one of his ridiculous thousand-year-old swords. But you know, honestly, I probably wouldn’t even have to try that hard, do I? I could just tell him he’s a fucking old—”

“That’s enough,” said Locke. His voice was sharp, his gaze heavy on me. 

I smirked with a dark, satisfied thrill. 

“Councillor Rowland won’t discipline you unfairly,” he said. 

“So do you happen to have a bit more of the Fizzroot spore?” I asked with a grin. 

“William,” said Locke.

“Ah, you are right,” I waved. “Rowland is not a good idea. I need to do something… bigger.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.” I felt my grin widen. “You know who could punish me if I did something stupid? And you could do nothing about it?”

Locke just narrowed his eyes, pressing his lips together.

“My father,” I said. “I think I could make him angry if I exploded some Fizzroot spore in the throne room.”

Locke went very still.

“Or maybe I would burn down half the castle,” I added with a shrug. “That would do it, wouldn’t it?”

Silence fell heavy between us.

When Locke spoke again, his voice was low and dangerous. “I think that’s enough.”

“No, this is–”

“Enough,” repeated Locke. He took a deep breath, then just looked at me for a moment, thoughtful, contemplating. “I know why you are reaching for punishment,” he said quietly. “It would give your thoughts somewhere else to go. Pain is simple, while guilt is… not.”

“I’m just saying–”

“No.” He shook his head once. “You are not allowed to hurt yourself by proxy because I refuse to do it for you.”

“But…”

Locke tilted his head. “But?”

I stayed silent. I realised I had no idea what to say.

When Locke spoke, his voice was incredibly gentle. “If I punish you for something you didn’t do wrong, all I teach you is that feeling bad means you deserve to be hurt. And that is a lesson I will not give you.”

“This is stupid,” I mumbled. “I want it.”

“I know,” he nodded softly. “I know it feels like it would help.”

“It would,” I said stubbornly.

“Maybe for a moment,” he said. “Pain could…quieten things. It could give you something solid to hold onto instead of all that noise, that’s true.”

“Then why don’t you…”

“Because afterwards, the guilt would still be there. And you would have learned that hurting yourself is how you cope with it. That’s not relief, Will.”

“It would be a relief,” I muttered.

“But relief isn’t the same as healing,” he said.

I swallowed hard. There were tears in my eyes now, and my hands were clenched into fists so tightly my fingers hurt. “I– I– I don’t care. I want you to punish me. I don’t care if you are afraid, I don’t care if you are a fucking coward, just..”

“Afraid?” he asked quietly.

“Afraid of being wrong,” I snapped. “Afraid of hurting me and finding out I deserved it.”

Locke sighed. “I’m not punishing you, because you do not deserve punishment. Punishment works when it follows a fault.”

“Yeah, and I…”

“And you did nothing wrong. You want punishment because it gives your pain a reason. But sometimes pain doesn’t come from wrongdoing. Sometimes it comes from surviving.”

I took a small step back, shaking my head. “This is stupid.”

“I’m sorry, William,” he said.

I kept shaking my head, my vision blurry from tears, my voice shaking. “This is stupid,” I repeated. “Fucking stupid shit. You’re just being an asshole.”

He tilted his head. “William…”

“No!” I laughed, and it was so hollow and so wet with tears that it made me laugh and cry harder. “No. No. I mean, all right, all right. You won’t punish me for the Dusk, right, you have all your stupid reasons, I understand. But what about everything else? I coated your damned office in fucking Fizzroot slime! Are you fucking fine with that? What the hell now? What the fuck?”

Locke looked so gentle. So careful. So fucking understanding.

I wanted to toss a burning jar of Fizzroot spore right into his face.

“You are doing these things because you want me to hurt you,” he said quietly. “And I refuse to reward that.”

I kept backing up until my back slammed into the door. I was sniffling, wiping my tear-streaked face into my coat sleeve. I could hardly catch my breath.

“Will, please–” started Locke.

I turned around. Every nerve screamed at me. I had tried everything, and nothing—nothing—got me the release I wanted. The frustration, the rage, the guilt…

I slammed my fist into the door, sobbing, opened it with a burst of magic, then I ran. 

I couldn’t remember how I got to the rooftop.

Dark clouds were swirling across the sky, and I was lying on my back, one hand raised up—the smallest movement of my fingers, and the wind picked up, stirring the clouds, whistling through the Sanctum’s labyrinthine rooftops, whipping at the edges of the cloak spread beneath me.

Magic throbbed in my veins. The sky was softly rumbling. Just one tiny movement, just the smallest twitch, and the storm would break…

The storm.

The city’s dark streets, the overflowing river, the fallen houses… the fallen houses with darkness crawling along their ruined walls.

The darkness crawling in the depths of my mind.

Lightning.

Locke’s blood blending with the spreading rainwater.

My fault, my fault, my fault, my—

A soft voice: “William?” 

Locke. He was standing at the top of the steps leading to the platform, one hand gripping the railing. 

My fingers flinched, and the sky rumbled above us. The sun was still up, but it was hidden behind the dark clouds, and the world around us was dim and dark and grim. 

His voice was gentle, worrying, almost lost in the wind. “You will catch a cold.”

I laughed, sharp and ugly, and then my breath hitched halfway through and suddenly I was crying again, hard enough that it surprised me, hard enough that the wind caught up around my fingers and cold rain started to drip from the sky. I dragged my hands through my hair, pressing my palms into my eyes like I could shove everything back inside.

“I don’t know what else to do,” I said hoarsely. “You won’t let me fix it.”

“There is nothing to fix,” Locke said.

“That’s the problem!” I snapped, voice cracking. “I did everything wrong and you keep telling me I didn’t, and I don’t know– I don’t know– Fuck, I don’t know how to live with that.”

Silence. Wind tugging at my collar.

“You keep refusing,” I went on, words tumbling now, desperate. “You stay calm and soft and gentle. You worry. I know you worry, I know you are trying to hide it but I know you worry. And whatever I do, whatever I do, you won’t let me get punished properly.” I gulped, wiping at my face, at my tears mixing with the rain. “So what am I supposed to do with all of this?” I thumped a fist against my chest, fingers clawing into my shirt, into my skin. “It’s not… It doesn’t…” A quiet sob. A hard swallow. “It doesn’t go away.”

Locke inhaled slowly. 

“You’re right,” he said. “It doesn’t.”

I looked up at him, eyes burning. “Then stop pretending it will.”

“I’m not,” he said. “I’m… refusing to let you turn it into something it isn’t.”

My hands were shaking. “Then what is it?”

Locke hesitated.

Really hesitated.

“It’s grief, I think,” he said finally. “And shock. And yes, guilt. And fear.” His voice was steady, but he kept gripping the handrail so hard his fingers turned white, and I guessed it wasn’t only because of his fear of heights. “And I… I have been afraid of how you are trying to deal with it.”

“Afraid?” I echoed bitterly. “Of what, exactly? That I will break another rule?”

I saw him sighing, but the sound was lost in the wind. “That you will keep trying to hurt yourself in ways that look like discipline,” he said quietly. “And that I will let you.”

I swallowed.

The city’s distant hum below us was swallowed by the rising wind. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

“I don’t want to punish you,” he went on. “Not for the Dusk. Not for surviving it.”

He let go of the handrail, standing a bit uncertain for a moment, then stepped closer, crouching down beside me. “William,” he murmured, stroking careful fingers over my damp hair. “Darling. You did nothing wrong.”

I shook my head, tears dripping off my cheeks. “I hate it. I don’t know… I don’t know what to do.”

He was silent for a moment. Rain dripped from his hair onto his shoulder.

“There is…something we can try,” he said at last.

I let out a shaky breath. “You don’t mean–”

“No,” he said firmly. “Not punishment.”

I swallowed. “But then–”

Locke raised a hand slightly. “Not punishment,” he repeated. “And not penance. It would be something… deliberate. Something slow. Something that reminds your body where you are and what is real.” His voice softened. “Something that doesn’t tell you did wrong, but tells you that you are here.”

I stared at him, heart hammering.

“You said you wouldn’t,” I whispered.

“I said I wouldn’t punish you,” he replied. “And I won’t. If we do this, it will be because I decide it will help you come back into yourself. Not because you think pain will absolve you.”

His touch was soft as he kept stroking my hair. The wind rushed around us.

“Then what, if not punishment?”

“Grounding,” Locke said. “Deliberate. Contained. On my terms.”

I laughed weakly. “You’re just changing the name.”

“No,” he said, sharper, firmer now. “I am changing the meaning. This would not say you are bad or you did something bad. It would not say you need correcting. It would say that you are overwhelmed, and that your body needs to be reminded that you are here, you are whole, and you are alive.”

I stared at him, rain stinging my eyes. “You would still be in control.”

“Yes,” he said. “Completely.”

Something in my chest loosened and clenched at the same time.

“I have been scared of offering this,” he admitted. “Because I know how tangled this feels for you right now.” His eyes searched mine. “If we do this, we will go slowly. We will be careful. I will expect you to talk, and if at any point I feel–” He paused, choosing his words with care, “–that you are trying to turn this into a punishment, or that you are telling yourself that you are being bad, or needing to pay, or deserving pain… Then we will stop.”

My throat tightened. “But–”

“Then we will stop,” Locke repeated firmly. “We will stop.”

I wanted to tell him this was stupid. Ridiculous. That he was ridiculous, overbearing, naive—but the words caught in my throat. He looked so unshakable. So unflinching. Afraid, yes, and worried, and tense, but also so fucking solid. Safe. Permanent.

I nodded. 

Thunder rolled overhead. The clouds shuddered. Rain kept falling into my face, mixing with my tears. 

“You don’t have to decide now–” he started.

“Yes,” I interrupted. “Yes, please.”

He searched my face for a moment. We were so close that I could see the raindrops clinging to his eyelashes.

“If we do this,” he said slowly. “Every step will be on my terms, not yours.”

“I guessed,” I shrugged, trying to act nonchalant. 

He narrowed his eyes, searching my face, taking a few deep breaths. Then he nodded. “All right. Get up, the roof is cold.”

I narrowed my eyes too. “What if I don’t?”

“William.” Some warning in his voice. 

It made warmth spread in my chest. 

I swallowed. “You just said… let me remind you, repeatedly, that you will not punish me.”

His eyes darkened. “You will get up,” he said slowly. “Because I told you to get up. Now.”

Our eyes met. The rain stopped, and I blinked away the tears and the raindrops, so I could stare him in the eye.

He didn’t move. Didn’t reach for me. Didn’t threaten. He just waited.

I got up. 

 

I spent the afternoon huffing and puffing and rolling my eyes as Locke made me eat dinner.

Then he even made me take a bath. 

“Why the hell do you need me to be clean just to–” I groaned as he unbuttoned my shirt, standing in the lavender-scented steam next to the filled tub. 

“I don’t need you to be clean,” he said evenly, sliding my shirt down. “You were told to take a bath, and I expect you to comply.”

“But…”

“This does not require any argument. Strip and get in.”

I stared at him for a long second, jaw tight, skin prickling.

He just stood there, patient, infuriatingly calm, one hand resting on the edge of the tub. Waiting.

I huffed sharply through my nose and yanked the rest of my clothes off, my movements rough and clumsy. I stepped into the water, steam curling around my legs, the water so hot it was almost painful for a moment.

“Sit,” Locke said.

I glared at him. 

Then I sat down. 

“You know,” I muttered, sliding lower into the water, “this is not how I imagined this grounding thing.”

Locke dipped a washcloth into the tub, looking at the water rippling around his hands for a moment. Then he raised the cloth to my shoulder.

“This isn’t about what you expected,” Locke said. “It’s about what you need right now.”

I rolled my eyes, huffing as my body (that traitor) relaxed into the hot water and into his soft touch. 

“Amazing,” I muttered. 

Locke didn’t even react. He washed me methodically, working the tension out of my shoulders with steady, practiced movements, staying close, staying silent, rinsing and repeating. When I shifted or tensed, his hand would settle on my shoulder until I stilled again.

The heat seeped into my body, loosening my muscles, slowing my breath, steadying my hands until they finally stopped shaking.

It was irritating.

I didn’t want to be calm. My body had no right to soften when my mind was still this huge mess.

 

Eventually, he told me to get out. He wrapped me in a soft, freshly washed towel and dried me off slowly, still in silence.

He only spoke when I tried to reach for my clothes.

“No. You won’t need that tonight.”

I froze, hand still in the air, staring at him. My stomach clenched and I could feel my pulse quickening in my chest—but I stayed silent, letting him guide me back to the bedroom, hugging the towel around me.

Locke did not hurry. He stopped by the fireplace, using a quick spell to make the flames leap up higher. The soft crackling was the only sound in the room. He drew in the heavy curtains. He filled a glass with water from the jug, placing it on the bedside table. 

He took the towel from me, and wrapped me in a soft, thick blanket instead. He guided me to sit on the edge of the bed.

I frowned. “We usually do punishments in your office.”

Locke stopped.

The words hung there between us.

He turned towards me, slowly, deliberately. His face was calm, but there was something sharp in his eyes, in the way he tilted his head.

“We are not doing a punishment,” he said.

I blinked. Not knowing what else to do, I rolled my eyes.

Locke grabbed a chair, pulled it next to the bed, and sat in front of me, knees nearly touching mine.

“We are not doing a punishment,” he repeated, his voice low and firm. “This is not punishment, William. If at any point I feel you treating it like one, or trying to make it one, we stop immediately.”

A beat.

“Do you understand?”

For good measure, I rolled my eyes again. “Yes.”

He fixed his eyes on me, his expression serious and sombre. I shifted slightly, pulling the blanket tighter around me.

“It’s important you know that what we are about to do won’t be easy,” he said.

He didn’t continue. The quiet stretched. 

I nodded.

He placed one hand on my knee—steady, grounding. “It will be hard. It will hurt. And it will stop the moment I say it stops… or the moment you do.”

I swallowed hard. “I can handle it.”

“I know,” Locke replied, his voice calm but firm. “That’s not what I’m worried about.”

He paused again.

If this thing will go this slowly, I will lose my mind.

“Do you remember what I told you earlier?” he asked. “What you say if you feel you can’t continue?”

“Yes, I have a functioning memory,” I muttered.

Locke’s eyes narrowed. “William.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Tell me, please.”

“I’ll say that I’ve reached my limit.”

“You will say it when you need to,” he said, his voice suddenly very stern. “I won’t be mad, and I won’t be disappointed, and I won’t be displeased. I will stay with you. We will stop, and we will talk a bit. All right?”

Suddenly, my throat felt too tight. Biting my lip, I nodded. 

Locke’s fingers squeezed my knee a little. “I want you to give a verbal answer, please.”

“Y–yes.” I cleared my throat. “Yes. All right.”

“Thank you,” he nodded. “You can push,” he added with a small smile. “I expect that. You can test and argue and fight all you want. But it’s my responsibility to protect you, and if I feel that what we are doing is no longer helping you feel more grounded, then we stop.” He met my eyes. “There will be no arguments about that.”

This all felt… safe. But also frightening.

“Of course,” I said, avoiding his eyes. 

Locke was silent for a moment. I could feel him assessing me, weighing whether I was taking this seriously enough or not. I bit my lip, shifting under his gaze.

“Look at me,” he said.

I did.

“If we are doing this, then I will expect you to communicate.” His fingers tightened slightly on my knee. “And I will expect you to speak to me with respect.”

I scoffed faintly. “That’s rich, considering–”

“William.” 

My mouth snapped shut.

“You can be sarcastic all you want,” he said evenly. “You can roll your eyes and talk back to me. But I will correct that. Are we clear?”

I glared at him a bit, then looked away quickly. My fingers were tightly grabbing the edge of the blanket. 

“…Yes,” I muttered.

Locke studied me for another moment, then nodded once.

“Good,” he said. “Then we can begin. Tell me how you remember that night in the capital.”

I blinked. 

What else have I expected, though. 

“So that’s your plan? You make me eat dinner, you make me take a bath, you wrap me up in this ridiculously warm and soft blanket—where did you get this from, anyway—so we can have a nice little chat about my favourite memories?”

“Yes,” Locke answered.

I scoffed. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

I shifted on the bed, the blanket slipping a little on my shoulders. “You already know what happened. You were there. I mean you were there in the beginning, before you died, anyway.  But still, I’m sure you have read some very detailed reports. What more do you want? Shall I recite minute by minute how I felt?”

“You can start by telling me how you remember that night.”

I rolled my eyes. Then, reluctantly, I shrugged.

“I remember the storm,” I said. “You know what storms are like. There was wind. And rain. Crazy, huh?”

“Will.”

“Sometimes… Sometimes I think it’s all the storm’s fault. Or the Council’s, for not dealing with it better.” My mouth twisted. “Then I remember…if I hadn’t been there. If I hadn’t got this stupid power. If I weren't dangerous… I remember what I am. That I shouldn’t be trusted, shouldn’t be given choices, shouldn’t be allowed this much power. And then there’s no one else left to blame. It’s my fault. All of it.”

Locke was quiet for a moment.

Then, “Do you really think that’s an acceptable way to speak about yourself?”

I snorted. “It’s true.”

His gaze stayed steady. “All right. Stand up.”

I frowned. “Why? I thought we were having a chat.”

“We are having a chat,” he said, standing up himself. “But we are going to have it in a different position. Come.”

I frowned, but I stood. He stepped close, and took the blanket from my shoulders. Cool air brushed my skin, and I shifted, not knowing what to do with my hands, with my body.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

I shook my head. The fire was warm and my skin was flushed anyway.

“Good,” he said.

Then he sat down on the edge of the bed, calm as ever, and placed his hands on my hips.

“Are you sure–” I started.

Locke just nodded. He guided me closer. 

Then down over his knees. 

“You have strange ideas on how to have a nice conversation,” I muttered.

“Hmm,” he said. His voice was even, almost amused. “I think this is very nice.”

Heat crept up my neck as Locke placed his hand on my bottom. I shifted a bit, then realised how that might look—wiggling over his knees—and I went very still instead. 

“I’m going to spank you a bit now,” Locke said. I felt my cheeks flush and my eyes widen, then I buried my face into the comforter. “Just my hand. This is not a punishment; it’s to keep you here, in your body, in this room.” A brief pause. “To remind you that you are alive. To make sure you know that I am here, and I’m taking care of you.”

“Of course you are,” I mumbled, wanting to be insulting, but ending up sounding rather…honest? 

Shit. 

I sighed, grabbed a pillow, and hid my face completely.

I felt him shifting before he raised his hand. The mattress dipped slightly as he adjusted, one hand steady at my hip. Then a pause. I held my breath–

The first strike came with a sharp, startling sound, echoing through the room. My leg twitched, my fingers curling into the pillow, even though it was barely a mild sting. 

“There,” he said quietly. “Stay with me.”

Like I had anything else to do. 

The next strikes followed at an unhurried pace, but still, the sting spread, getting more and more bright and insistent. I took a deep breath, my heart pounding now, too fast, too loud, all my nerves there, present, awake. 

I shifted.

I closed my eyes, then opened them.

I bit the pillow.

Still, the slaps kept coming.

“All right,” I muttered into the pillow. “All right, I get it. I’m alive. Very alive. Perfectly alive. You can stop now…”

His hand came down again. 

I made an undignified sound and kicked one foot.

His hand came down again and again. 

I hissed, slapping a fist against the mattress.

His hand came down again and again and again. 

“This is–ow–I’m serious, this is starting to feel a bit excessive– I know I’m here, I know you are here too– Shit, not so fast!”

He still didn’t talk. His hand came down faster now, in a flurry of quick and powerful slaps, making all my muscles tense and my whole body jerk–

Then he stopped. His hand rested on me, steady, firm, warm. 

The fire crackled softly.

“So,” he said finally, his hand drawing slow circles on my back. “Tell me how you felt when the roof of the palace fell during the dinner.”

I pushed myself up on my elbows. “Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“You want to talk about what happened like this?”

“Yes.”

I let out a long, exasperated sigh, flopping back down. “Oh, nice. Perfect. You know what? It was wonderful. We had the most wonderful dinner with my amazing family, all of whom just adore me for setting half the palace on fire then pretending to be dead for a decade, and then that marvellous ceiling collapsed on top of us, and–”

Locke’s fingers were in my hair. He didn’t pull, but still, his touch made me suddenly shut my mouth. 

“Your hair is growing out,” he said.

What?

“I know,” I said, furrowing my brows. “It looks ridiculous.” 

It did: some random locks showed my dark red hair starting to grow out, while other parts still retained the brown colour I had spent a decade weaving in.

“It looks lovely,” Locke said. I could feel him shift as he leant down to press a kiss to the back of my head. Then he straightened up: “Bring me your hairbrush, please.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Your hairbrush.” He helped me up slowly, keeping strong hands around me as I found my footing. “I think it’s on your dresser.”

Frowning, I reached for the blanket—but Locke stopped my hand. 

“You won’t need that. Just bring me the hairbrush.”

“But–”

“Now.”

I glared at him. He raised an eyebrow. I felt like my whole upper body was blushing as I turned around and stomped to the dresser. 

The hairbrush was lying on the top of it. It was made from some darker wood, its boar hair bristles black and dense, its back flat and shiny. It felt heavy in my hand. It–

Oh. 

Oh shit. 

For a moment, I contemplated throwing it out of the closed window. 

I didn’t look at him as I dragged myself back to the bed and tossed the hairbrush into his hand. 

“Thank you,” he said. 

I rolled my eyes. 

Locke looked so calm. So collected. There wasn’t even a crease or rumple on his shirt. He sat with a straight back, his knees spread, and twirled the brush between his fingers.

“Back in position,” he murmured, taking my wrist and guiding me back over his knees. 

He spent some minutes just staying like that, rubbing gentle circles on my back. 

“Breathe,” he said after some time.

“I’m breathing,” I huffed. “I would be dead by now if I had stopped breathing.”

Locke took a deep breath; I could feel his body moving.

“Maybe that would be better,” I added.

He went still. 

His hand stopped on my back. 

The room was dim and silent. 

I shifted, trying to push myself up to my elbows. His hand shot out to my nape, pushing me back down.

“But–” I huffed.

“No,” he said. “Stay there.” 

“I didn’t mean that–”

He shifted, guiding my hips over his left knee. I felt his right leg fold over mine, locking me in place. 

“Answer me something simple,” Locke said. “Did you choose what the Dusk did?”

I scoffed. “Of course not.”

His hand was so warm on my back that I wanted to arch up into his touch, into his gentleness, into his warmth. 

“Good,” he murmured. “Could you say that again? That you did not choose the Dusk’s actions?”

Ugh. “No?”

“Try it, please. In a full sentence.” His voice was calm, patient, but firm.

“Why? This is not what this should be about–”

“Say it,” he said.

“No.”

“Say it,” Locke repeated.

“No,” I spat. “Go to hell.”

The hairbrush slapped down on my bottom—and it was far more biting than I anticipated, a burning sensation spreading through my skin, hot and tingling. I jerked, letting out an offended yelp. 

“We are not here to punish you,” Locke said, his voice low, thoughtful. “We are here to remind you that you are alive.”

“This is the most stupid–”

I twitched as the hairbrush landed in a quick, sharp rhythm, squeezing my eyes shut and hissing through clenched teeth, counting in my head: twelve hard strokes, from side to side, from top to bottom. 

“Shit–” I gasped. 

Another dozen. I felt all my muscles tense as I grabbed the sheets, my fingers curling into the fabric. My legs tried to kick up, but Locke’s leg held them firmly in place.

When he put the brush down and went back to stroke my back, I was gasping for air, chest heaving, cheeks hot.

Locke waited until my breathing had quietened a bit.

“Where were we?” he asked softly.

“Talking about how stupid your ideas are,” I muttered.

I wasn’t able to count the strikes anymore. The brush was loud, echoing slightly in the bedroom, heat spreading quickly through my skin, stinging and prickling. I buried my face in the pillow, squirming, heart hammering, my body instinctively bracing for the pain, trying to shift, trying to pull away, trying to reach back–

“No,” said Locke, grabbing my hand and pressing it down against my lower back. 

The brush struck me again and again and again, and my chest heaved, my back arched, and the sting was bright and raw and relentless, and it was just too fast, too insistent, too much–

I tried to reach back with my other hand too, and then he stopped, at least for a moment, catching both my flailing hands with his left, pinning them down—then he continued the spanking.

The hairbrush was vicious.

Monstrous.

Heinous.

The sting sank deep into my skin, into my muscles, into my bones, and I was gasping, my mind empty except for the burning pain–

“No no no no. Fuck, this is–”

“Breathe, please,” said Locke, slapping the hairbrush down on my left cheek, then on the right, then on the top of my left thigh, then on the top of the right…

“This is too much,” I gasped. “I can’t–”

“It’s all right,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere. It’s all right.”

What’s all right? What the hell is all right?

I was thrashing. Locke’s grip tightened on my wrists.

It was a deep, unrelenting, throbbing pain. My hands were in fists and my teeth were biting the pillow, and I tried to kick Locke’s leg away. He only shifted, holding me in place, not slowing down, not losing his maddening rhythm. 

Too fast, too fast, too fast–

I took a deep, shaky breath, which broke on the exhale.

My shoulders sagged, my fists loosening.

Locke stilled.

“There,” he said quietly. He kept holding my hands behind my back, but set the hairbrush away, placing a steady hand on my leg. “Breathe.”

I didn’t want to. I felt like a mess, heart thumping, chest heaving, body trembling over his knee. But my lungs drew in a deep breath on their own, and Locke’s grip loosened on my wrists, moving to my lower back, pressing down slightly, soothing, grounding. 

“Deep breath, William.”

I made a wounded, angry sound, but took another deep breath. 

It felt good. 

It felt maddening.

Locke’s palm stayed on my back, and I moved my hands, slowly, to grab the pillow under my head again, my shoulders aching, my fingers still trembling a bit.

“There you are,” Locke murmured. “We are safe. You are here, you are alive. I’m with you. I’m taking care of you.”

He shifted carefully, adjusting my weight, stroking over my back. 

“You are being very good for me,” he said. 

“I didn’t do anything good,” I muttered into the pillow.

“You did very well,” he said, his voice gentle, his hand caressing my shoulder. “You are here. You are paying attention to me. You are doing perfectly well.”

I buried my face back into the pillow, huffing. The pain was not as sharp now, but I still could feel it, a fierce stinging, a deep throbbing, a raw tenderness. 

“I will burn that damned hairbrush,” I muttered.

Locke chuckled. “You can, if you want,” he said, then added, his voice getting firmer, “A bit later. Now we are going to stay here for a bit longer.”

His hand kept drawing slow circles on my back. I let my eyes slide shut.

“You are being really good,” he said. “This is not a punishment. You did nothing wrong. We are going to talk a bit more, all right?”

I groaned. “No. No. I don’t know what to tell you. It was stupid. It was awful. I did– I did– What I did was…”

A soft, encouraging tone. “Yes?” 

I lowered my head, my chin digging into the pillow. “I don’t know.”

“That’s all right,” he said. “Just tell me what you think.”

“You…” My voice was low, ragged, and I was fighting myself, fighting to stay silent—but Locke was holding me and I was in pain and he was telling me to speak. “You told me to stay back. You told me to stay back, when I tried to climb the debris to get to my mother. You told me.”

“Your mother was injured,” Locke said evenly. “You were afraid.”

“But you told me,” I pressed on. “If I had listened, if I had just for fucking once listened to you, then the lightning couldn’t have struck me, and then… then… then the Dusk…

His hand paused. “Do you have any responsibility for what the Dusk did?” he asked.

“I—”

“Do you?”

“I mean, I’m—”

“Do you, William?”

I let out a rough groan. “I know what you are doing. You want me to say that it’s not my fault. But it… It feels… We were one, you know. The Dusk and me. They came because of me. They came because I lost the armbands, and I lost them because I wasn’t listening to you.”

“You lost them because a bolt of lightning struck you in a magical storm,” he said, calm and unyielding. “You almost died.” A beat. “So tell me—do you have any responsibility for what the Dusk did?”

“This is stupid,” I muttered, the pressure in my chest building, pushing against my ribs painfully.

“I’m not asking for your opinion, I’m asking you to answer my question.”

A hitched breath, on the verge of being a sob. “Go fuck yourself.”

A moment of stillness. 

Then Locke shifted, and I didn’t even have time to think about what was happening before the hairbrush collided with my skin.

It was shocking. A sharp, horrific sting over that constant, dull, throbbing sensation. 

“No—” My voice came out thin, stunned. “No, I—”

It was too fast.

Too much.

I jerked uselessly, my hands clawing at the pillow, fingers slipping, shaking.

“Please,” I gasped.

“It’s all right,” Locke said. “You are being really good.”

Another blow landed before I could breathe, and then another, the sensation blurring into heat and pressure and shock.

“Stay with me,” Locke said. “You are safe.” I squeezed my eyes together and made a long, frustrated, anguished sound. “You are being held. Breathe. You are really good.”

I slapped a hand against the mattress, then reached out, smacking his back. He didn’t even flinch. “Stop saying that!” I hissed. 

Another strike.

Then another.

“I didn’t say you are behaving,” Locke replied calmly. “I said that you are good.”

My body bucked in a small, useless, frantic motion. Locke’s left hand was heavy on my upper back, holding me down, anchoring me.

“You are alive,” he said. “You are breathing. You are present. That is enough.”

“Please–” I gasped. 

“Just breathe,” said Locke, and I tried, I really tried, but my nose was snotty and I could only gasp, while that damned hairbrush was so heavy and stung so much and my skin felt raw and my chest was trembling–

“No, no, no, no, please. I can’t. I can’t. I–”

I twisted suddenly, reaching back, fingers scrabbling blindly until I felt wood under my hand.

“William—” Locke said sharply.

I wrenched at the hairbrush, my grip clumsy but frantic. For a heartbeat, we were both holding it, our fingers brushing. My arm shook, strength already failing, my breath coming in broken gasps.

“No,” I cried. “Please—just—please—”

“Let go.”

“No.”

“Let go, Will.”

“No.” I didn’t. I couldn’t. My fingers locked around the hairbrush, nails biting into the wood, my shoulders twisting, my wrist yanking painfully.

His other hand came up, grabbing my wrist. His touch was cold, strong and decisive. My fingers loosened, and he took the brush from my grasp easily.

“Enough,” he said, low and controlled.

He set the brush aside. His other hand stayed on my wrist, pinning my hand down on my lower back.

I sagged forward with a broken sound, a sob finally tearing up from my chest, my forehead pressing into the pillow.

“It’s all right,” Locke said. “You are all right. I’m holding you.”

I nodded weakly, tears soaking into the pillow beneath my face.

“Good,” he said. “You are here.” I felt the mattress shift as he reached for the brush again. “You are staying here for a bit more.”

My whole body jerked. “No, please. Sir. Please–”

“A few more,” he said quietly. 

“No, I can’t, please–”

“Shh.” His fingers brushed over my bottom, soft and light, and I keened, burying my face into the pillow to muffle my sounds. “Breathe, William. I know it hurts, but you are not harmed.”

A small, broken sob. “It hurts like hell.”

“You are overwhelmed. That’s all right.”

No. Not all right. Absolutely not all right.

“I can’t take more. Please.”

“A few,” he repeated, his grip firming on my wrist. “I will be slower. I know how demanding this can get.”

Ow.

Locke really was slower. 

Strikes spaced just far enough apart that my body had time to tense before each one.

A solid, deliberate weight.

Blooming sting.

Measured, unyielding.

“You are doing very well,” Locke murmured, and I wanted to protest, wanted to argue—but I had no strength left for that. My whole body was tense. My muscles straining. My chest heaving. My breath coming in short, ragged gasps. 

Finally, Locke put the brush aside.

For a moment, he was silent. 

His hand moved from my wrist to my lower back, pressing firmly. His other hand settled on my hip, his thumb drawing small, slow circles. 

He let me cry. 

I let myself cry. 

“You are safe,” Locke whispered in the end, his voice steady, unwavering. “I’m here. I have got you.”

I only nodded. Locke handed me a handkerchief, and I blew my nose. I drew a shaky inhale, then another.

“I know,” I mumbled. “I know what you want me to say.”

His hand was in my hair, massaging my scalp slowly. 

“Yes?” he asked in a soft voice.

“I know that I… I did not choose the Dusk’s actions. I know that very well.”

“Good. Very good.”

“But we were one. Maybe I didn’t choose their actions, but that does not mean I’m not responsible.”

Locke drew in a deep breath, his hand still in my hair. “William… listen to me carefully.” His voice was low, unwavering. “You did not choose this to happen. You are not responsible for what the Dusk did. That is the truth, and I need you to hold on to that truth, even if it feels… unfair, or uncomfortable, or wrong.”

I made a small sound, pressing my face harder into the pillow. “But–”

“No,” he said, firm now, fingers tightening a bit in my hair. “I know it’s hard. I know it’s confusing. But you are not guilty, and you do not need to take responsibility for what you could not control.”

I swallowed, my throat painfully tight. 

Locke’s fingers slid down to my nape. “Do you understand me?”

“I…” My chest heaved, tears pooling in my eyes, soaking the pillowcase. “I don’t– I don’t want to understand. I do, I just… don’t want to.”

Locke was still for a moment, humming quietly. His fingers stayed at the nape of my neck, warm and steady, his thumb rubbing slowly. 

“You don’t have to want to understand,” he said quietly. “But you do have to listen.”

I shook my head: a small, frantic, wrenching motion. “I couldn’t– I couldn’t stop it.”

“You were the one who stopped it in the end,” Locke said. His voice was hard, firm; almost strict. No softness, just certainty. 

I nodded, shoulders shaking, sobbing free now. Locke’s hand slid to the middle of my back, palm flat, a firm, grounding pressure. “It’s all right,” he said. “Feel where you are. You are doing very well.”

I dragged in a breath, sharp and ugly, shaking. 

“You did everything you could,” Locke went on. “You fought. You survived something incredibly challenging. The rest…” His hand pressed down with a bit more pressure. “The rest does not belong to you.”

I let out a broken sound. “I don’t want to feel like this.”

His voice softened just a touch. “I know.”

We stayed like that for a long moment. I shifted a bit, to lie a bit more comfortable over his thigh. He kept a hand on my back, and the other touched my bottom, soft and light, making me shiver but also gently stroking away some of the pain. 

“Can you say it now?” he asked quietly.

I swallowed, wiping at my tears. “I don’t want to.”

“Say it anyway, please.”

Silence stretched. My chest burned. 

I worked my jaw, and swallowed again, my jaw trembling.

Locke waited.

I cleared my throat.

“I…It’s…”

He kept stroking my back, his movements slow, unhurried. 

It felt like we could just lie there until the end of time, in silence, in softness, in his gentle touch. 

In that throbbing pain. 

“I… fuck, I know you are right. But if I say it out loud, it makes it feel like… like it’s true.”

“It is true, darling.”

“Also I don’t like that you are making me say it,” I murmured. “If I… comply… that makes me feel so… so…”

“Obedient?” offered Locke with a low chuckle.

I could feel my face turning hot. Locke’s hand soothed over my burning skin, comforting, reassuring, painful. 

“You can be obedient,” he said softly. “There’s nothing wrong with that. I’m here. I’m taking care of you. You can let me take care of you. You can let yourself obey me.”

I huffed into the pillow. “It’s… embarrassing.”

Another soft chuckle. “It’s all right. I won’t delude myself into thinking that you are obedient. You don’t have to worry about that.”

I shifted a bit. Sniffled. Huffed again. 

“All right.” My voice was low, a bit petulant. “I know I did not choose the Dusk’s actions. I’m not responsible for what they did. Even though they arrived because of me, and, well, they woke from their centuries-long sleep because of me in the first place, but–ow!

A sharp slap of the hairbrush stopped me, my body jerking, the burn flaring up. 

“This was very good,” Locke said softly. “This was very good, William. Try again, this time without the commentary, please.”

I made a small, sullen sound, frowning.

It did not escape my attention that the hairbrush remained in his hand.

“I did not choose the Dusk’s actions,” I mumbled. 

“Good. Are you responsible for what they did?”

“No.”

“Say it.”

“I’m not responsible for what the Dusk did.”

“There,” Locke murmured. His hand resumed slow circles on my back. “That’s it. Good, William, very good.”

I sagged. It hurt—it hurt to say this out loud.

There was a lot of pain.

The pillow under my face was wet with my tears.

Grief.

Resentment.

A tiny, fragile thread of relief. 

“Tell me about that night,” Locke said softly.

I swallowed. I didn’t want to talk. 

But when I opened my mouth, the words just came. “It was… We were– The Dusk were– We were all over the city. I could see everything happening. I thought… I… No, I didn’t even know what I thought, it was hard to know which thoughts were even mine… They showed me the burning palace. I thought it was… I believed it was happening again. The fire. Me. But then… It was raining. I knew it was raining but I also knew the palace was burning. And they kept showing me you, dead, in the rain…”

“I wasn’t dead,” Locke said quietly. “I was injured, but I was not dead.”

“I know… I mean I don’t know, it doesn’t make sense. They showed me… the Dusk showed me memories.”

“Oh, William.”

“It doesn’t make any sense. They showed me all those… all those horrible things, but they were responsible for some of those horrible things… it made no sense. They killed you, and–”

“I was not killed,” Locke said gently.

“And I was so angry, and they loved that rage, but it makes no sense because I was so angry at them…”

“That’s good, William. It doesn’t have to make sense.”

“I remember that the palace was not burning. The bird was singing and suddenly I thought that the palace was not burning…”

“Good, darling. You are doing very well.”

“Then I wanted fire. I know this makes no sense. But then suddenly the Dusk did not want the fire? People were dying around us, we were everywhere in the city, and it was like the most amazing feast for the Dusk, all that fear, all that suffering… They wanted for us to keep feeding on the suffering. We were so strong. With my power, we could feast on the whole city…”

“And the bird?” prompted Locke quietly.

I choked on a small sob. “The bird helped. She kept me… in my body. I could see a bone in my leg, did you know that? It was white and bloody. Or maybe I just imagined that, I don’t know. The bird showed me that I’m… That I’m… That I’m stronger.”

“That’s good. You did so good, William.”

I laughed, sharp and broken. “It was so easy. You can’t even imagine how easy it was. The magic. I could have led armies of the Dusk. I could have done anything. I could have–”

“You choose to do the right thing.”

“I…”

“You did. You defeated the Dusk. You survived the most horrible darkness.”

“I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You did so, so good,” Locke said. “I’m proud of you.”

I sobbed silently. Locke stayed still, one hand on my back, the other settling around my waist. 

He kept stroking my back.

The silence stretched, but now, for once, it was not tense or anxious or choking.

It felt almost nice.

I let out a long, shuddering breath. Locke’s hand found my hair again, fingers combing through it in an unhurried rhythm, over and over, soft and careful.

I closed my eyes.

My body still ached, deeply, but it was distant now. Not sharp, not demanding, but a faint, throbbing, dull sensation. 

I curled a bit, pressing myself closely around him, the position awkward, embarrassing, but I didn’t even care. 

Locke’s strong hands were around me. 

 

I didn’t know how long we stayed like that. Time felt soft. Slow. Tender.

Locke’s hand kept moving through my hair, down my back, slow and steady, until my breathing evened out. My body felt heavy and sore and… good.

Eventually, Locke shifted a bit. 

I made a small, instinctive noise, tightening my grip on the sheet. 

“Easy,” he murmured. “It’s all right. I have got you.”

I exhaled, turning my face into the pillow. My eyes were dry now, but the pillowcase was still damp.

For a few more breaths, he said nothing.

Then, “We are going to continue in a moment.”

I went stiff. 

What?

I raised my head just enough to glance back over my shoulder. “You can’t be serious.”

His hand didn’t stop the gentle circles on my back. “I am.”

I stared at him, incredulous. “I just– You can’t possibly think–” I broke off, gesturing weakly at myself. “I’m– It hurts.”

Locke tilted his head slightly, considering me.

“I know,” he said. “We are not finished yet, though.”

“We can be finished,” I said quickly. “I know it wasn’t my fault and everything. I did everything right. I’m wonderful. The Dusk was atrocious but I was heroic, blah blah. We don’t have to continue.”

Locke chuckled. “Well, you are right about all those things. But there are a few things I still would like to ask you.”

I buried my face back into the pillow with an annoyed groan. 

“Listen to me,” Locke said, placing a warm palm on my shoulder. “You did very well just now. You are being really good for me now, and I’m very proud of you. Do you know that?”

“Of course,” I mumbled into the pillow. “I’m doing just fucking great.”

A sigh. 

“All right,” said Locke. “Tell me three nice things about yourself.”

“What?”

“Three nice things about yourself.”

“Nice things? What the hell? This is the stupidest—ow! “A loud slap of the hairbrush, then another. “No, no, sorry! No!”

I kicked up, and Locke simply shifted, sliding one of his legs over mine, striking down with that damned hairbrush in quick succession. 

When did it even get into his hand?

“Stop,” I gasped. 

“Three nice things,” he repeated, calm and patient, completely ignoring my thrashing over his knee. “They can be qualities. Skills. Anything true.”

“I can’t–” I slapped a fist down on the mattress. “I can’t even think like this!”

“Just say what comes to your mind first,” Locke said.

I twisted to the side, but a strong hand on my hip pulled me back. “Fuck, I– I can’t even breathe!”

Three more, hard slaps, echoing through the room and making my skin feel like it’s on fire. 

“This can be over quickly,” Locke said. “Just say three nice things about yourself.”

I huffed, clawing the pillowcase. “This is stupid,” I mumbled.

“It is not,” said Locke firmly. “You have lots of good qualities.”

“Of course,” I huffed. “Tons of good qualities. Like I’m really good at annoying people–”

A single, sharp smack. I kicked out on instinct, giving a long, low cry of complaint.

“Try again,” Locke said. 

“I’m exceptionally talented at setting things on fire,” I grunted. “So talented that my fires will probably end up in the history books, and—ow—hey, stop!

“No,” said Locke. The smacks of the brush were so quick my brain struggled to follow—I tried to reach back, but Locke grabbed my wrist—I tried to get away, but I couldn’t, so I just buried my head in the pillow, biting into the soft fabric. A sharp, broken, choked whimper—

Locke put down the brush, stroking gentle fingers over my blazing skin. 

I took a shaky breath, wiping my face into the pillow. 

Fucking tears again.

“This is not what I’m asking for, William.”

“I know,” I mumbled. “I’m really good at disappointing everyone I care about, right?”

Silence. Locke’s hand felt heavy on my wrist, still holding me in place.

“That’s not true,” he said quietly. 

“I told you,” I shrugged, as much as I could in this position. “I told you this is stupid. I’m stupid. I do the stupidest things all the time. I’m–”

One single smack. I jerked forward, fingers of my free hand grabbing at my own hair, pulling at the roots. 

Locke’s hand left my wrist, gently untangled my fingers from my hair.

I swallowed, my throat almost painfully tight. 

“Take a deep breath,” Locke said. 

I tried. Air entered my lungs—then something hitched, a strange, broken jerk—and I breathed out shakily, my whole body trembling with a deep sob. 

“I can’t,” I whispered. “Sorry. I don’t know. Sorry, sir–”

Locke’s body, leaning over mine. A soft kiss in my hair.

Fingers massaging my scalp.

“That’s all right,” he murmured. “You are doing very well. Thank you for telling me that.”

“What?” I gasped, a wet, broken laugh escaping my throat. “The whole point is that I can’t tell you anything–”

Another small kiss. “And I’m very proud that you used your words to tell me that,” he said. “Instead of using them to hurt yourself. I will help you. All right?”

I shrugged, reaching for the handkerchief, wiping more tears into the small fabric. 

Locke’s other hand moved to my back, drawing firm lines into my muscles. 

“Tell me what you like to do,” he said. 

“What?”

“Just something you enjoy. Doesn’t have to be something important, just something you enjoy in your daily life.”

“I… I don’t know…”

“Shh, it’s all right. Just something simple.”

“I… I like… reading?”

“Yes, that’s perfect. You like reading a lot.”

“But that’s not a good quality.”

“How can reading be linked to a good quality of yours?”

“I… I… don’t know, like I’m good at surviving days with very little sleep when I stay up late reading?”

A small chuckle, then the lightest slap from Locke’s palm on my bottom. My leg twitched. 

“Can reading be linked to studying?”

“I suppose…it can?”

“Are you asking that?”

“Am I?”

“Will…”

I sighed. “All right, I get it. I’m not that bad at studying.”

“I think you are exceptionally good at studying. You studied in secret for years, and you already had a very fine knowledge when I first met you. And since then, since you have access to books and actual lessons, you are soaring in your learning. I would even say you are diligent.”

“That’s… exaggeration.”

“It is not.”

“It is.”

“Do I need to convince you?”

“You can’t convince–” His hand slid down to my bottom. “No, there’s no need. You are right. I’m good at studying. You are completely right.”

“Perfect. So you are excelling in your studies. That’s a really nice thing about you, William. Can you tell me another? Something that you like in yourself. Maybe something that you can be even proud of.”

“Of course. I’m extremely proud of my charming personality.”

Locke’s fingers slid over my scalp, making my whole body shiver. “That’s good. That can be our second nice thing.”

“No, that was a joke–”

“Yes,” Locke said mildly. “And it happens to be correct. You don’t get to take it back.”

I buried my face into the pillow with a low grunt.

“Tell me something else.”

“I can’t.” My voice came out flat, muffled.

“I’m sure you can. We have time.”

“I’m good at wasting your time.”

Another slap, this time a bit firmer, then Locke’s hand immediately returned to my back. I shifted a bit.

“You are not wasting my time. Maybe think about something that you always do?”

“Displeasing you?” Another small slap. I let out a small yelp. “Hey, that’s not fair!”

“You are not displeasing me. Right now, for example, you are being very good for me. You are here, and you are paying attention, and you are letting me take care of you.”

“I can’t say a third thing,” I mumbled.

“You will,” Locke said quietly, his hand drawing wide circles on my back now. “Tell me what you did when you were only a small child and the fire happened in the palace.”

“I ran away like a coward?” 

Another hard slap, this one making me rock forward, reaching back to rub away the pain.

“You survived,” Locke said smoothly. “As a small child, you–”

“I was nine, I wasn’t that small–”

“Oh, Will. You were alone, you were young, and you fought so hard to survive. What trait could you associate with this?”

“I was good at running away really fast and leaving only destruction behind?”

A deep sigh. Then a loud smack—the hairbrush again. 

“No, no, no, sorry,” I gasped. 

“Ten more,” said Locke.

“No–”

“Breathe.”

Fuck you.

I breathed as Locke brought the hairbrush down, wincing and yelping and gritting my teeth. The sting was biting; and there was also that deep and tender feeling, like my muscles, my bones were bruised now—

I was softly whimpering as Locke put the brush down. 

“That’s it,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled. 

“It’s all right,” he said simply, returning to the caressing of my back. “You are being really good for me.” A small kiss on the top of my head. “You survived, darling. You kept going. Do you realise how many times you carried through incredibly hard situations?”

“No,” I grumbled.

“Do you really not know, or are you just being stubborn now?”

“I’m never stubborn,” I mumbled. 

Locke chuckled softly. “Never? All right. Just tell me how you would name this trait.”

“Good luck?”

“That’s not a trait, William.”

“Bad luck?”

“Will.”

I groaned into the pillow. “I don’t know! Something like endurance?”

“Exactly.” The hand in my hair patted my head gently. “Persistence, strength, fortitude. Resilience.”

“It’s not like I really had any other choice…”

“You always had choices. You could have done so many things differently, yet here you are, still strong, still learning, still growing.”

“This is not true–”

“Stay silent now for a bit, darling.” Huffing, I bit into my lip. Locke’s voice was gentle now, quiet and soft, as was his touch on my back and in my hair. “You could have given up. You could have let the darkness take you. And although I really wish for you to learn that you are not alone, it’s remarkable how many severely demanding challenges you have faced on your own.”

“But–”

“Shh.” 

Locke’s hand remained in my hair, steady, patient, as if we had all the time in the world just for me to lie over his knee and listen to his thoughts about my alleged resilience. 

“You could have surrendered to the storm,” he said quietly. “You could have surrendered to the Dusk, to the belief that you were not good enough to win this fight. But you fought. You persevered. You kept going when you were frightened, when you were in pain, when you were alone. You survived, William. You are here, you are alive, and you are so, so good right now.”

“I’m only being good because you keep spanking me,” I mumbled. 

Locke huffed a quiet breath. “No,” he said mildly. “If pain were all it took to make you do the right thing, then you would just obey anyone who frightened you enough.”

I frowned into the pillow, but stayed silent. His hand didn’t leave my hair, but the rhythm changed now: slower, less directive, more grounding.

“But you don’t,” Locke continued. “You question. You argue. You resist. You rebel.”

“Yeah, I have always known that rebellion makes you happy.”

This time, Locke laughed openly. “Not all the time. But it also means that you are curious. Observant. Clever. You are determined. Insightful. Adaptable.”

A short silence followed his words. 

I gulped. “Yeah, that’s–”

“No,” he said, his fingers in my hair tightening a bit. “You don’t have to argue now. Can you tell me the three good things we collected about you?”

Aaaarrgghh.

“No. I don’t remember.”

“William.”

“My good memory was not one of the three, after all!”

An exasperated sigh. “Will. I still have your hairbrush here, you know.”

I went still. “Being good at learning,” I said. “And having a delightful personality. And being… resilient.”

“Yes. Very good.”

“This means you can put the brush away now?”

“Yes. Tonight, we will only talk a bit more, then rest a bit before we go to sleep. You can write your lines tomorrow.”

I gaped. “My– what– what do you mean– What lines?”

“We’ll make a few nice sentences from those three good things about you,” he said calmly. “Tomorrow, you will copy them a few times.”

“A few?” I asked warily. “Like… for example, three?”

“I was thinking fifty,” he replied, unbothered.

“You can’t be serious.”

“We will see, William, we will see. Now, one last question: what did you learn tonight?”

I huffed, rubbing a hand down my face. “That hairbrushes are evil and should all be burnt to ashes?”

A sigh. “No.”

“That I’m obviously wonderful?”

“That’s true, but I would need a few more details, please.”

“That…” I took a deep breath, swallowing hard. “That you…maybe… think that what the Dusk did was not my fault?”

A moment of silence. Locke’s voice, when he spoke, was low and ominous. “Maybe?”

I winced. “Umm…”

“Say it properly, please. What did you learn tonight?”

I exhaled, long and shaky. “That what the Dusk did was not my fault.”

“Again.”

Really? 

I swallowed hard, cheeks heating. “That what the Dusk did was not my fault,” I repeated, huffing. “Maybe. Perhaps. Percha—”

A single, loud slap on my bottom. 

“Again.”

“What the Dusk did was not my fault.”

“Exactly. Do you want to write lines about this too?”

Fuck you.

“No.”

Locke’s hand remained on my back, steady, grounding. “Good. Say it one more time.”

I groaned, pressing my face into the pillow. “What the Dusk did was not my fault.”

“Good. Perfect, William.”

He shifted carefully, not really guiding me off his knee, more like leaning down himself, and pulling me along, until we were lying on the bed, close, limbs tangled together. I let out a slow breath as he pulled a warm blanket over me.

“Here,” he said, tucking the edges around me. “Nice and warm.”

I curled up slightly, hiding my face in the pillow, still flushed. 

“It’s all right,” he murmured. “You did very well. I’m so proud of you.”

He sat beside me, one hand brushing over my hair, the other resting lightly on my shoulder. He took the glass of water from the bedside table, helping me take a few small sips. 

“It still hurts,” I said, sending him an offended glare.

“I think it will hurt for a bit more,” Locke nodded. “You will have some bruises tomorrow.”

“Can I really burn that hairbrush?”

“You can, but what will you use to brush your hair then?” He smoothed a curl of hair out of my face. 

“I don’t really use it anyway,” I shrugged, stifling a yawn.

Locke chuckled softly. “You could, some days. But don’t think about incineration now; try to rest a bit. How do you feel?”

“I’m… exhausted.”

“Shall I have some food brought to you?” he asked gently.

 

“No…” I murmured, my eyelids heavy. I reached for Locke, and he let me grab his shirt, pulling him a bit closer. “I’m not hungry.”

“All right.” He pressed a small kiss to my temple. “Do you want to sleep?”

“Yes, please,” I whispered.

“That’s all right. Just rest, William. I will be here when you wake up, all right?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“You are safe here.”

“I know.”

“I’m taking care of you.”

“I know…”

“Have sweet dreams, darling,” he whispered, settling beside me.

I mumbled something, but I could hardly understand my own words anymore. Locke chuckled, gave a small kiss to my forehead, and murmured something about being proud of me. 

I let myself relax, let the warmth of the blankets envelop me. The room was quiet, only the wood crackled in the fireplace, the flames casting flickering shadows along the walls. I took a deep breath, sinking into the softness around me. 

Locke’s hand rested over my hips, steady and warm. A quiet insistence that I was here, that I was alive, that I was not alone.

For the first time in a long time, I felt a fragile thread of calm weaving through the storm in my mind. 

Notes:

If I can actually stick to my plans (yes, I even have plans now 🥺) we have about two chapters left. I have no idea how this happened. So, if you notice huge (but maybe still remediable) plot holes or anything like that, please let me know ❤️

Also, if you want to be part of an amazing community of dfic readers and writers (who write way better stories than I do), come join us on this awesome Discord server, The Story Corner: https://discord.gg/yFVWzhk8

Chapter 62: Echoes

Summary:

Pretty much nothing but conversations.

“Please remind me,” said Gavin, sitting on the edge of my writing desk and folding his hands over his chest with a dramatic sigh, “what exactly are we doing here?”

“I asked for Sol’s help,” I muttered. “I have no idea why you are here.”

Gavin grunted, and opened his mouth, but Sol was faster. “We are helping him,” he told Gavin. “Maybe you can save his life, all right?”

“I don’t need my life to be saved,” I scoffed. “Just… to make sure nothing dangerous happens?”

They watched as I reached for my talisman. Its weight was familiar now around my neck, reassuring, almost comforting. I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling my magic, listening to its soft hum… 

Magic surged through me as I took off the talisman and placed it on the bedside table. For a moment, I just stared at the smooth stone. 

“So,” said Gavin. “Is this the point where you lose control and accidentally burn down this whole building?”

Sol gasped, glaring at Gavin in outrage.

“No,” I waved with a tired sigh. “I won’t. But… you don’t have to do anything, actually. Just… pay attention if something weird is happening, and wake me.”

“What weird thing could happen?” asked Gavin.

“You remember that time when I found the Lost Library?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, I was sleeping. And then suddenly I was awake, and I was in the Lost Library, with no light or no magic. Then even the Dusk attacked me.”

Silence fell over my bedroom. I stared at the talisman a bit more. Gavin was silent, looking a bit apologetic. Sol was silent too, looking slightly worried.

I huffed, reaching for the small bottle of potion Sol helped me brew. 

“It’s not like I want so much sleep in front of you,” I muttered, sending a grumpy glare at Gavin. “But… just… Locke would kill me if I died during this.”

“Well, Locke would kill all of us if he found out about this,” muttered Gavin. 

“No, he won’t.” I waved.

“Well…” mumbled Sol, exchanging a quick glance with Gavin. 

“We know you like getting smacked by him,” Gavin said casually. I almost dropped the vial of the potion, scrambling to catch it. “But I don’t ever want to get close to his cane again, you know?”

“What– why– what he hell– no— Gavin!” I sputtered, nearly dropping the vial again. “I—That’s… that’s not—!”

Gavin smirked, leaning a bit back and crossing his ankles. “Relax, Will. Don’t pretend you—”

“Shut up,” I snapped, heat rising to my face. “I mean– I mean… No. Just no. You are insane.”

“Hmm,” said Gavin. 

I shook my head, trying to redirect my thoughts to the task at hand. “So, the point is… Fuck you, Gavin. So the point is that Locke would kill me if I did this alone. But!” I waved around at them. “I’m not alone. I’m responsible. Just a quick sleep with the help of Sol’s potion, a quick dream, and then no one even has to know this happened.”

“I think it would be nice if you told Councillor Locke,” said Sol, as he had said many times before.

“No,” I answered, as I had answered many times before.

“But–”

“We can talk about it later,” I sighed, popping the cork free from the bottle. “Just… just wake me up if things seem weird, okay? And otherwise, just…don’t stare.”

“I will grab some ink and draw something fun on your face,” said Gavin.

“No, you won’t,” said Sol. He turned towards me. “You will be safe. We will be here, all right?”

“Yeah… thank you,” I murmured.

I sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing a hand over the blanket. I barely remembered the last time I slept there. I sighed, tilted my head back as I swallowed the potion, and laid my head down on the pillow.

There was no assurance at all that the plan would work. A bit earlier that afternoon I drank a potion that was supposedly meant to help open the mind—but since I’d brewed it in secret myself, I wasn’t really hopeful that it would do anything. I already counted myself lucky that it didn’t seem to have done me any harm. According to the plan, I would then drink the dream draught, sleep for an hour or two, discuss everything with Lysander Langston in my dream, and by dinnertime I’d be able to act as though nothing had happened.

Ideally, I didn’t want anyone else present. Lying on a bed under the influence of a sleep potion and dreaming about some ancient, mysterious relative while my friends watched was not exactly fun.

Still, this was the better alternative to Locke ever finding out that I had done this alone.

Locke… he’d been strange these past few days. Worried. Almost cautious, like someone afraid of doing something wrong. I almost felt sorry enough for him to admit that the grounding thing had…actually helped.

But the next day he made me write lines, and after that I wasn’t really in the mood to show my gratitude.

Then, a few days later, when I made a half-joking remark about how many people’s deaths I was responsible for, Locke simply sat me down at his desk, rummaged for a moment in one of the drawers, then selected a sheet from a stack of papers and placed it in front of me.

“A hundred lines,” he said. “You can take another sheet if you run out of space.”

At the top of the page, in Locke’s barely legible, messy handwriting, it read:

“I am not defined by what the Dusk did, but by what I chose to do when I had the power to choose.”

I frowned. “You just pulled this out of a drawer?”

Locke nodded towards the paper. “Get to work.”

I stood up, walked around his desk, and pulled open the drawer. Inside were at least a dozen more sheets, each with a sentence written at the top:

“I am learning. I am growing. I am forgiving myself.”

“I am worthy of peace and self-love.”

“What the hell,” I murmured.

“You can choose another one,” said Locke mildly. “And write another hundred lines. Or you can just obey me now and start your task.”

Now, lying on my back on my unused bed, I smiled a bit. 

It was nice. 

Locke was nice.

Was I already sleeping?

I can’t dream about Locke. 

I can never dream about Locke in front of Gavin. 

Shit. 

I tried to think about the long and narrow corridor, where I first saw Lysander Langston in that painting. His purple cloak, his bright, almost white eyes following me…

I imagined the Lost Library. Imagined the books, the stone tablets, the skull, the bricks on the wall. The stairs, the corridors, the one hundred and thirteen steps down. The door, the huge chamber with the stone table, the blood, the experiments, the magic–

When I opened my eyes, I was on the terrace of a countryside cottage. 

Warm sunlight spilled over the pale stone of the building. Ivy crept along the low wooden railing around the patio, and colourful red, purple, and pink flowers spilled down from their boxes. Gentle hills rolled away in the distance, dotted with blooming trees and grazing sheep. The air was scented with wildflowers, fresh tea, and raisin cake. A gentle breeze whistled, bringing soft birdsong from the nearby trees.

I was sitting in a comfortable wicker chair, with a knitted blanket draped over its armrest, woven in soft threads of cream and light blue. On the small round table beside me, tea was steaming in a chipped porcelain cup.

In the garden, among the trees, a red-haired little girl was running. Her two older siblings followed her, laughing—one of them waving a stick, the other munching on a big, round biscuit. They disappeared behind the side of the house.

Lysander sighed deeply.

I sat motionless, a little stiffly, squinting in the bright sunshine.

Lysander sat on the other side of the small, round table. He looked old and tired. He wore simple clothes: brown trousers and a cream-coloured shirt; there was no trace of his purple cloak. His face was wrinkled, his eyes almost colourless. As he turned after the sound of the children’s laughter disappearing behind the house, I wondered if his eyes could even see.

“My children grew up in this house,” he said.

I fiddled with the handle of the cup.

“So you’re here somewhere as well? In this house? Right now?”

My gaze lingered on the house’s pale stone walls. On the neat door, on the flowers adorning the windows, and on the colourful curtains faintly visible behind the glass.

“They are celebrating a birthday,” Lysander said quietly. “They will all grow up. My youngest child has just turned six. It was a wonderful celebration. They were all very happy. I… I was no longer alive by this.”

I raised my eyebrows. The terrace was sunny and warm, yet Lysander’s faraway stare sent a slight shiver through me.

I swallowed. “How… how can we be here, then?” I asked. “How do you know they were celebrating, if you were no longer alive?”

Lysander was silent for a while. “I wasn’t here then,” he said. “I’m here now.” 

I furrowed my brows. “That… doesn’t answer the question.”

Lysander’s eyes flashed, almost angrily. For the first time, he looked at me. “Questions,” he muttered.

“Yes,” I replied, my voice sounding far firmer than I felt. I straightened slightly in the chair. “I think there are quite a few things you’re responsible for, and it would be good if you answered at least some questions.”

“The Dusk was necessary,” he said evenly. “Horrible, but necessary—and magnificent.”

“The Dusk is the darkest, filthiest, most terrible thing that has ever existed,” I shot back.

“They saved the realm,” Lysander replied. “They brought glory. They are strong. They are…perfected.”

“They’re finished,” I hissed through clenched teeth. “The Dusk feasted on suffering and killed countless people—but it’s over now. I killed them. Every single one of them.”

Lysander wrapped both hands around his teacup.

He smiled.

His face changed completely; his features smoothed, and perhaps some blue even returned to his eyes. His eyes laughed. They shone.

“Good,” he said. “That’s right. I’m proud of you.”

I stared at him, motionless, my brow furrowed in disbelief.

“That’s how it had to be,” he said, taking a large sip of his tea.

I very nearly grabbed my own tea and poured it over his face.

In the distance, birds were chirping, and the wind carried the sounds of conversing adults and laughing children from the back garden.

“The Council, they…they needed your blood to control the Dusk,” I said at last.

“Yes,” Lysander replied.

“To create it… the creation of the Dusk was so terrible that the magic vanished from the Lost Library. It has never returned.”

He let out a soft sigh, his gaze distant. “It probably never will.”

“Did you… did you weave magic into people’s minds? Did you transform living people… into the Dusk?”

“Yes.”

“How… why?”

“They were dark times.”

“Nothing—nothing can be so dark that it’s worth creating the Dusk.”

“I know.”

I drew in a breath of air in disbelief. My gaze lingered on the cup, on the tea still steaming, and I imagined the hot liquid striking Lysander’s unreadable face full on.

This is just a dream. I could even do it.

But then the door opened, and a woman stepped out onto the terrace. Dark blue flowers—exactly the same shade as her dress—were pinned into her red hair, which was twisted into a high bun. Over one shoulder she carried a folded blanket, and in her hand she held a picnic basket. She was no longer young, yet her steps were springy as she set off towards the stairs leading down from the terrace.

Then she stopped.

She turned towards us.

Her gaze rested on me for a moment, then she stepped up beside Lysander.

“If only you were here,” she whispered.

Her fingers brushed Lysander’s shoulder for a brief moment, then she turned on her heel and hurried off towards the back garden.

I remained seated, motionless. The terrace was quiet; only the distant chirping of birds could be heard.

Tears glistened in Lysander’s eyes.

I frowned. “I always thought that… that the children were needed so that… you know. Your blood. Controlling the Dusk. Blood magic.”

Lysander’s voice was very quiet when he spoke. “My wife was happy. I was very happy. The children were happy too.”

“You experimented—”

“There was no black magic involved.”

I snorted. “I saw your laboratory. How could there not have been—”

Lysander’s eyes flashed at me, and I closed my mouth. “Your own words, my boy. Creating the Dusk was so terrible that the magic vanished from the Lost Library.”

“But your experiments—”

“Black magic, or even magic itself, is not the only dangerous thing in this world.”

I frowned.

Why can’t I ever get a single straight answer?

“I loved all seven of my children,” Lysander said. “We built this house for them. None of them had magic—but every one of them was perfect.”

“Did loving them make it better?” I scoffed.

“I was happy. That is not the same as being good,” Lysander replied gently.

We were silent for some time. I reached for a biscuit, and took a small bite. It was fresh and sweet. 

I frowned a bit more. 

“How are we… here?” I asked, waving around. “How can I talk to you? You are dead.”

“I am.”

“This can’t be your memory, though, if you were dead by this time. Is it how the magic remembers? Or is it just a dream of yours?”

“This, my boy…” he looked around, as if seeing the house and the front garden for the first time, “is your dream.”

I groaned. “Of course it is, but you are in my dream!”

“I am,” said Lysander with infuriating calm. 

I drew in a deep breath. “You…” I scrubbed a hand down my face. “You kept showing up in my dreams. You couldn’t tell me how you made the Dusk because it was hidden by your magic. But you still…” I gestured helplessly between us. “You took me to the Library. You showed me where you made the Dusk. You even showed me your… experiments.”

Lysander inclined his head. “Yes.”

“You wanted me to figure it out,” I went on, my voice tightening. “You wanted me to find out that I’m your descendant.”

“Yes,” Lysander said simply.

“We share our blood.”

“I know.”

My jaw clenched. “And the Dusk,” I went on. “I was… that night, I was one with them, you know?”

“I do.”

Something hot and sharp twisted in my chest. “I hate you.”

“I know.”

I groaned and buried my face in my hands, fingers digging into my hair. 

Across from me, Lysander was infuriatingly calm. He hummed softly under his breath as he lifted his teacup and took another small sip.

“You were the only one who could carry this through,” he said, as if stating a simple fact.

“I—” My voice cracked. I swallowed hard, my throat burning. “I didn’t want this.”

“I know.”

For a moment, I just glared at him.

There’s no point in having an argument.

I took a deep breath. “It’s over now.”

“It is finally over,” Lysander agreed, nodding.

The gentle spring breeze brought soft sounds of singing from the backyard.

I looked up at Lysander, taking another deep breath. “How can we be talking? You are dead.”

He smiled. “The ways of the mind are unfathomable.”

“That’s not—” I snapped, cutting myself off with a frustrated sound.

“This is a dream,” Lysander continued smoothly. “This beautiful house. This garden. My family. The birdsong.” He gestured vaguely around us. “All of it exists in your mind.”

“But how?” I pressed. “Is it the way magic remembers you? Is this some echo you left behind? Or did you plan all of this?” My hands curled into fists. “Did you plan…me defeating the Dusk?”

Lysander’s gaze softened, infuriatingly gentle. “I, my boy, have been dead for a very long time.”

I stared at him, my fingers tightening around the sweet biscuit. “That’s not an answer.”

“Are answers useful,” Lysander asked mildly, “if they make you stop asking questions?”

I let out a short, humourless laugh. “You drag me through your memories, your blood, your fucking sins, you make me finish what horror you have started centuries ago…and you still won’t tell me what’s even real.”

Lysander sipped his tea in silence.

I wanted to scream. 

Lysander said nothing.

I said nothing either.

He sipped his tea.

I ate another biscuit.

“Some moments don’t belong to magic anymore,” he said at last. “They belong to the living.”

Our eyes met. Lysander’s expression was calm, smoothed of all tension. Happy. Almost proud.

I took my tea and poured it all over his face.

Then I stood up, took another biscuit, walked along the winding path beneath the blossoming trees of the neat front garden, and stepped out of the gate.

The sky shone blue. Birds in the distance sang a joyous, soothing melody.

“You are walking through the space where I used to think,” Lysander’s voice said somewhere in the depths of my mind. “It still…smells like spring.”

 

The afternoon light filtered faintly through the window as I opened my eyes.

The room was quiet. My head ached a little, my right arm had gone numb, and my throat was dry.

But otherwise, everything seemed fine. I was still in my room. The Sanctum was still standing.

I propped myself up, shaking out my numb arm. Sol, who had been sitting on the floor with a book in hand, jumped up immediately.

“Did everything go all right?” he asked. “Are you okay?”

I had to clear my throat. “Yes,” I replied, my voice a bit raspy.

“Nothing burned down? Nothing exploded?” Gavin asked with a grin.

I sat up and shot him a scowl. “It never even occurred to me that anything like that would happen,” I muttered.

“Of course not, Your Highness of Contained Magical Mayhem,” Gavin nodded.

I groaned, rubbing my face. I was about to snap back at Gavin, but Sol raised his hand, cutting me off.

“And Lysander? Did it go well?”

“I… yes, we met. We talked. He was… mysterious and pretentious.” I fiddled with my pillow. “Well, a pompous idiot. I never want to see him again.” My movements slowed as I put the pillow back on the bed. “Although… I think I won’t, anyway. Somehow, it’s…over, I guess.”

 

There was a moment of silence.

Then Sol asked, “That’s good, isn’t it?” 

“I suppose,” I replied. “Just—”

I fell silent. At that moment, the door to the room opened—and Locke appeared.

What the hell.

My eyes met Sol’s sheepish expression.

On the other side of the room, Gavin pushed himself away from the table, where he’d been half-sitting, half-lying, and straightened up.

Then my gaze slid to the bedside table, where, next to the empty dream-potion bottle, lay my talisman.

Locke’s eyes followed mine.

“What’s going on here?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I shrugged.

Sol’s face went completely pale. I could almost hear the words of horror forming in his mind: lying in the face of a Councillor!

“I’m just spending the afternoon in my room,” I added. “We have free time. Sol’s here because he’s my friend. Gavin’s just… biding his time here, I think.”

“Hey,” Gavin snapped.

I opened my mouth to reply, but Locke spoke first. “Is this a regular thing?” he asked, gesturing toward the talisman.

I swallowed hard. “No.”

He studied me for a moment with narrowed eyes. I bit my lip but held his gaze.

“All right,” he said finally. “Pick up the talisman and come with me. You have a visitor.”

I reached for the bedside table in shock. “A visitor?” I asked.

“Yes. Let’s go.”

I quickly exchanged glances with my friends. Sol tried for an encouraging smile. Gavin shrugged.

I hung the talisman around my neck and followed Locke.

Who could be visiting? Ilara? But why didn’t she write beforehand?

Just… Please, not Mum. I haven’t even brushed my hair.

Nervously, I tried to smooth down my shirt and brush a few strands of hair out of my face.

Or the king. Damn it, please, not the king. What would the king even want from me?

Locke led me to his office.

Inside, at the small table by the fireplace—which Locke never really used—sat Fhearnan.

From the monastery.

Fhearnan.

I stood frozen in the doorway.

Then Locke stepped in beside me, nudged me gently forward, and closed the door behind us.

I turned to him. “How?”

“Brother Fhearnan and I have exchanged quite a few letters by now,” he said.

“But— But…” I stammered.

“We were all very worried about you,” Fhearnan said, rising from beside the fireplace.

“But how?” I turned back to Locke.

“William,” he sighed. “There’s only one monastery near the town where we met. It wasn’t difficult to put things together.”

“You… you…”

“I wrote to the High Priest, yes.”

“He was very glad to hear from you,” Fhearnan interjected. “We all were.”

“But… I…” I faltered, my gaze darting between Locke and Fhearnan. “I just… disappeared.”

Locke’s face was sombre, but he didn’t reply.

Fhearnan let out a deep sigh. “Yes,” he said. “We were terribly worried. We spent weeks searching the forest between the monastery and the town.”

I bit my lip. “Brother Fhearnan…” The address—and the respectful, slightly penitential bow of my head—came instinctively. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to cause trouble. And… to be secretive for so long… and… everything else…”

Shit.

I glanced at Locke.

“Did you tell them I’m a magician?”

Locke smiled. “I didn’t need to,” he said. “I suggest you sit down. You may have quite a lot to talk about.”

“You didn’t need to?” I repeated, staring at Fhearnan’s open, calm, joyful face as I stumbled forward.

“I’m not saying we knew,” he said quietly. He took my hands in both of his, gave them a gentle squeeze, then guided me to one of the empty chairs.

“When…” I swallowed hard. “When did you realise?”

“For years…” Fhearnan sighed deeply. “For years we suspected there was something important you were hiding. The High Priest and I talked many times over the past years about the possibility that you were involved with magic.”

“And you just wrote to them?” I snapped at Locke, not really knowing what aspect of this whole situation to even concentrate on.

Locke raised one eyebrow. Fhearnan lifted his hand—and I had seen that gesture so many times during my years among the monks that I understood and obeyed at once: wait a moment. Be quiet. Let me speak.

“After you disappeared,” he said, “the illusion you had placed over your room lingered for a few days.”

Shit. I felt my cheeks flush. I would have liked nothing more than to bury my face in my hands, but instead I sat up straight, folded my fingers in my lap, and waited politely.

“When the illusion faded,” Fhearnan continued with a faint smile, “in your room… in that dreadful mess, while we are on the subject… so in that mess, we found the dozens of magical books you had stolen from the town library.”

A heavy silence followed his words.

Fhearnan fixed me with a stern look.

Locke, on the other hand, seemed almost amused.

“I… um… I mean… if you want, I can go back and tidy up?”

Fhearnan stared at me for a long moment.

Then he laughed.

I felt my face flush even deeper, and looked away with a petulant frown. 

“We have already cleaned your room,” he said. 

I felt as though I couldn’t possibly blush any more. I slid a little lower in my chair.

“I’m sorry…” I muttered.

“Do you know what we found there?” Fhearnan asked.

Ugh. “No.” And probably I don’t even want to know.

“Almost four dozen stolen books,” he said, exchanging a meaningful glance with Locke. “Half a loaf of bread. Dried fruit wrapped in shirts. Bottles and jars full of herbs and powders. One of them exploded when Brother Nasser pulled it out from under the bed. The key to the attic. A small vial labelled “not poison”. Seventeen mugs and twenty-one teaspoons from the kitchen. A lockpick.”

At that point I finally buried my face in my hands. “I’m sorry,” I groaned.

“It took us three weeks to finish the cleaning,” Fhearnan added. “We found four of the High Priest’s seals hidden in one of your socks.”

“It was a very useful sock,” I muttered.

Fhearnan’s eyebrows rose. “Useful for forging official documents?”

I straightened at once. “I mean— I apologise, sir.”

“That’s better,” he said with a small smile.

“Were they… were the others very disappointed? Angry?”

“They were frightened,” Fhearnan corrected gently. “You vanished without a word.”

I bit my lip. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. Actually…” My gaze flicked to Locke. “Actually, it’s his fault. He just dragged me here. This is all on him.”

Locke tilted his head. “That,” he said calmly, “is a very selective retelling of the events.”

Fhearnan’s expression did not change; it stayed gentle, open. “We hoped,” he said quietly, “that if you were all right, you might write us a letter.”

I swallowed. I slid even lower on the chair, my knee bumping into the leg of the little table. 

“I’m so sorry, sir,” I mumbled, pressing my face into my hands. “I’m just… really sorry. I didn’t know what to do.”

Fhearnan’s voice was quiet, patient. “William,” he said softly, “we never truly believed the monastery was the right place for you.”

I peeked through my fingers. “You didn’t?”

“No,” he continued gently. “We hoped we could care for you well. We hoped to give you safety, food, a place to learn, to work…and we were grateful every day that we could watch you grow.”

I shifted slightly, cheeks burning. “I… I didn’t…you should be angry.”

Fhearnan shook his head, a faint, sad smile tugging at his lips. “We cared, William. I keep thinking about how you shoved up, stealing from our kitchen, small and dirty and lost. If we had known what you went through!”

I swallowed hard, my fingers tightening over my face. “I… I…”

“You are not the child who ran away anymore,” Fhearnan said gently. “We believed you would find…well, perhaps not the palace, not the monastery… but a place you can call home. We hope that you have.”

I stayed quiet, my throat tight, my heart hammering. 

Fhearnan’s eyes softened further. “We are proud of you, William. And we are grateful that, even for a time, you let us care for you.”

I exhaled shakily, letting my hands fall a little from my face. “Thank you,” I murmured, my voice barely audible.

Fhearnan reached into the satchel at his side. “I brought you something,” he said.

He set something on the table between us.

It was wrapped in soft linen, so I reached out, and folded it away–

My breath caught.

The book.

The Book of the Runeveil Ward, the one I had taken with me from the palace. The one I had clutched as I fled across the country, the one that helped me hide. It was dirty and crumpled and worn…

“We returned all the other books to the library,” Fhearnan said, watching my face closely. “But this one seems to belong to you.”

“It is,” I whispered, reaching for the book. 

I traced the worn cover with trembling fingers, careful, almost afraid. “…I… I thought it was gone,” I murmured.

Fhearnan’s lips curved into a faint, warm smile. “It was only in the bottom drawer of your dresser.”

I swallowed hard, blinking rapidly, my chest tight with all the memories it carried—the fear, the fire, the running, the hiding, the nights spent poring over its pages in secret. “Thank you,” I whispered.

Fhearnan reached into the satchel again and drew out something else: a small object, wrapped in the same linen, small enough to fit easily into his palm. “And one more thing,” he said softly, setting it beside the book.

I hesitated, glancing at Locke, who only gave me a faint, encouraging nod. My fingers brushed the linen and unfolded it.

A little wooden swallow, carved so simply and yet so perfectly. 

Oh.

It was the one the Head Priest had given me when they were nursing me back to health, the first time we met. It wasn’t even decided then that I could stay. But I was young, and injured, and silent, and the Head Priest sat beside my bed late at night, and carved me a small bird. Its wings were worn smooth, its beak chipped slightly.

I stared at it, then at Fhearnan.

I have no idea what to say. Fhearnan reached over at the small table, squeezing my hand for a moment.

I pressed the swallow to my chest, quickly wiping a tear away.

They gave me some time to calm down.

Later, Locke made tea, and Fhearnan asked about the Sanctum with genuine curiosity—simple, everyday things: what I was studying, how my days passed, whether I was healthy, whether I was happy. Locke occasionally chimed in with various praises about how well I was progressing in my studies, and how persistent and diligent I was, and I shot him sullen looks because he wasn’t even right—and besides, who was he to praise me in front of others anyway.

Then Fhearnan told me stories as well, and I learned that the horse I had taken into town on that fateful day, after two weeks of roaming free, had one morning simply wandered back into the stable—and has been living happily ever since, only disappearing once a month for a few days of adventurous wandering.

I learned that all the monks were well. Old Brother Afken’s leg had healed, too. The dog had had puppies. The maize harvest was better than ever.

I learned that they missed me.

“You could come and visit,” he said gently. “Just for a short while. Many people would be glad to speak with you.”

Many people would be glad to speak with you. The words echoed in my mind.

“Um…” I said uncertainly, twisting my fingers in my lap. “What if I… answered everyone’s questions in letters first, and only then… only then do we go within arm’s reach of each other?”

Fhearnan laughed, soft and warm. “No one wants to punish you, William.”

I swallowed, blinking down at my hands with a small smile. “I— I just… It’s better to be careful.”

“That is wise,” Fhearnan said gently. “And yet… do not be afraid to return. Even if only for a day.”

I bit my lip, reaching for my teacup. “Maybe,” I murmured. “Thank you.”

 

By the time Fhearnan said his goodbyes, the sun had already set outside. I walked him to the exit (he insisted on travelling the traditional way). By the time I returned to Locke’s office, the drapes had been drawn over the windows, and warm-glowing light-spheres hovered beneath the ceiling, bathing the room in a comfortable light.

“We need to talk,” Locke said, opening the door that led into the lounge.

I stopped short. “I also think we do,” I said, folding my arms.

Locke’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh?”

“Oh, indeed! Just how many people are you corresponding with?”

Locke’s surprised expression quickly shifted to one of understanding. “Oh, William. Quite a lot. Most of them in connection with the Council’s work, many regarding artefacts…”

I waved a hand. “How many of them are people I know?”

“Let’s see. There’s your father. Your mother. The Royal Mage. Your brother Eldric. From the monastery, the High Priest and Brother Fhearnan. Occasionally your sister, Ilara.”

“What in the world does Ilara even write to you about?”

“Most recently, she wrote that if I don’t take good enough care of you, she will make sure I die a slow and painful death.”

I stared at him, brows furrowing. “What?”

“Yes. She went into great detail over several pages about what would happen to me. Quite disturbing, really.”

I swallowed hard. “Well, you better be careful, then. She does carry out her threats.”

“I never doubted it for a moment,” Locke nodded. “Now come along. We have a few things to discuss too.”

Reluctantly, I stomped into the lounge. 

“Sit,” Locke said. 

I made a face, mostly mimicking his strict expression. 

Then I obeyed, sitting down on the sofa.

He took a seat in one of the armchairs, lighting the fire with a wave of his hand. He sat upright, his back straight, his legs crossed, his fingers interlaced on his knee.

“So,” he said quietly. “I think it’s time for us to talk a bit about your talisman.”

“I’m not so sure that it’s really such a great time for—”

“So,” he said, ignoring me, “would you mind telling me what happened this afternoon?”

I pulled a pillow onto my lap, biting my lip. “Nothing in particular,” I replied.

Locke tilted his head to one side. “I think,” he said mildly, “that we could sit here for a very long time while you stall with all sorts of evasive answers. I have got time. Or we could do it this way: you answer straight away and spare yourself those awkward silences you find so hard to bear. Well? Which one will it be?”

I swallowed hard. “I wanted to talk to Lysander,” I said.

Locke’s eyebrows shot up. “Lysander Langston?”

“Yes.”

He stared at me for a long moment. Then: “Explain what you did.”

I groaned, rolling my eyes. “Well, I found a concoction in a rather suspicious old book that helps you open your mind. A few pages of the recipe were missing, but thanks to my outstanding skill in potion-making, and some luck, I was still able to brew it without blowing up my cauldron. Then I drank it, of course. In secret.”

I watched as Locke’s face darkened, but I continued undeterred.

“Sol also helped to brew a dream potion. I asked him and Gavin to stay with me while I slept, so they could have helped if anything went wrong. So in my dream I could have a little chat with my long-dead ancestor who created the Dusk. That’s all. Everything was perfectly safe. Oh, and obviously I had to remove the talisman for the dream to work.”

A deep silence followed my words.

Locke did not move.

I did not move.

“William,” he said at last, very quietly, “do you have any idea what would have happened if your magic had surged while your mind was unguarded?”

I opened my mouth. Closed it again.

Locke’s voice was very quiet. “Did it help you? Talking to Lysander?”

I hesitated.

“I don’t know,” I said finally.

Locke waited.

I huffed. “He’s… irritating,” I muttered. “He talks in riddles. Half the time I don’t even think he knows what he’s saying. And I’m fairly certain he’s not actually real. Maybe it’s all just… magic. An echo. Or maybe it’s all just in my head.”

“Did it help?” Locke repeated.

I stared at the floor.

“Maybe,” I admitted grudgingly. “A bit.”

Locke nodded once.

“It makes sense,” he said.

I glanced up at him, surprised.

“It does not justify what you did,” he added immediately. “But it explains why you were willing to take the risk. For closure. To leave him behind.”

I swallowed.

Locke spent some time just sitting there, spine straight and expression serious, scrutinising me.

Then he sighed. His tone shifted into something much more somber, much more firm.

“That does not change the fact that you acted without informing me. That you relied on potions that were far from being safe and reliable–”

“Sol’s good at alchemy!” I interjected. “He brewed the sleep draught!”

Locke gave me a stern look. “What did you just say, William? A potion recipe with missing pages? Of a mind-altering recipe?”

“That was a joke…”

“Was it?”

“Well… I mean, they were unimportant pages…”

“You hate alchemy. You read all the time, but you somehow forget to read every single alchemy book I assign you. You came to alchemy lessons unprepared. You spend half of them daydreaming about being somewhere else, and–”

“Love when you praise me,” I muttered.

“And,” continued Locke, “You decided it was a good idea to brew a potion that affects your mind based on a recipe you yourself called quite unreliable? Do you understand these risks, William?”

I leaned forward, groaning, rubbing my hands over my face. “Why is that potion even important? It was not important. I don’t even know if it worked at all. But nothing bad happened. Everything is fine. There’s absolutely no need to get so worked up over something like this.”

Silence.

Then a single sharp huff.

Then more silence.

I looked up. Locke’s fingers tapped on his knee, a rapid, tense rhythm. He seemed as unimpressed as possible.

“You have drunk a mind-altering potion,” he said eventually. “And you took off your talisman. Then you went to sleep. And you think it was fine, just because nothing horrible happened this time?”

“Well…yes?”

I watched him as he took another deep breath, then exhaled slowly through his nose. “You could have been in terrible danger.”

I stiffened. “I knew the risks,” I muttered. “It was worth it.”

“William.” Locke seemed to be on the very end of his patience. “This is serious.”

“I am serious too,” I huffed. “It was fine. You are blowing it up.”

His fingers tightened on his knee. “Don’t you understand the dangers…”

“You are saying I’m dangerous, right?” I scoffed. 

He went very still.

Even the air around us seemed to get still.

Even the flames in the fireplace seemed to get quiet and motionless.

But when Locke spoke, his voice was awfully gentle. “No. Not at all. I’m worried, William.”

Not knowing what else to do, I rolled my eyes. “I wasn’t in any danger.”

“Do you remember the Lost Library?” His voice was really quiet.

“Yes, but well, it’s not even lost anymore.”

“You—” Another deep breath. Locke closed his eyes for a moment. “That time, you transported yourself to a faraway, unknown, dangerous place–”

“The only danger now is maybe being bored to death by all the tedious work Councillor Aman and his scholars do…”

“You were there in your pajamas,” Locke went on, voice tightening, “without shoes, in the middle of the winter–”

“Seriously, my clothes–”

“In total darkness,” he said, his voice firm and heavy now, “without food or water—”

“I have survived worse–”

His fingers curled into his palm. “Then the Dusk attacked you.”

“The Dusk is gone now!” I snapped.

“And what about that time,” he said, each word clipped, “when you fell through a portal and ended up in the Marshlands of Durnock?”

“I was awake when that happened.”

“In the middle of a deadly swamp–”

“I kind of destroyed that swamp,” I said defensively. “It’s not very dangerous anymore.”

“Stop.” He went perfectly still. “Just—” He shook his head, voice rough now. “Just stop dismissing every single thing I say.”

We were glaring at each other. The tension in the room was thick, pressing against my chest, ringing in my ears. I could hear the hum of the magic around us, bright and loud. The soft popping of the fire seemed to echo in the silence. Locke was still, too still, eyes narrowing, breathing heavy.

“So what?” I scoffed, wanting to punch him—wanting to beg for his leniency. “Do I just… not supposed to do anything? Sit on my ass and study diligently and be a good little boy?”

A moment of stillness—then the tension snapped like a wire.

My face felt like it was on fire.  Locke’s face melted, his eyes turning soft and gentle. A tiny smile appeared on his lips. “You are a good little boy.”

My fingers curled into fists. “Shut up,” I hissed.

Locke raised an eyebrow. 

I glared at some random point on the carpet, but I still could see his smirk from the corner of my eye.

Every muscle in me wanted to lash out. 

Every part of me wanted to crumble.

He sighed, searching for my gaze until our eyes met.

“I don’t expect you to do nothing,” he said eventually. “But if it’s risky, if it puts you in danger, I would like for you to tell me first.”

Silence.

“It is all right to need answers. You did very well by knowing what you needed. I’m glad you talked to Lysander Langston, if that helps you to move forward.”

“You don’t exactly act like you are glad.” 

Locke tilted his head, and for some time he just studied me. Slow, deliberate, like seeing through me, seeing into me. His gaze made my skin itch, and I fidgeted, pulling my legs up, twiddling the corner of the pillow.

“I think we need to talk about some rules,” he said finally.

“Rules?” I echoed.

“Yes. Concerning your talisman, for example.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I wasn’t supposed to take it off. It’s dangerous, blah blah. You can punish me and everything. Even so, I don’t plan to take it off again. I like wearing it.”

“I won’t punish you.”

I blinked. “No?”

“No. 

“Why? I mean, this…” I made a vague wave in the direction of him, “screams like I’m in trouble.”

“It screams,” Locke said calmly, “that I am taking this seriously. And that I want you to take this seriously too.”

I shifted on the couch, pulling the pillow up to my chest.

“I don’t believe we ever discussed you being forbidden from removing this talisman,” he continued. “The previous ones, yes. But not this one.”

“What do you mean, I’m…” I frowned. “I’m allowed to take it off?”

He studied me. “Do you want to be allowed?”

“Why are you asking me that?”

“Answer the question.”

I shifted on the couch. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“If we decide on a rule, you will need to follow it. There will be consequences if you don’t.” His voice gentled a bit. “It’s easier to follow a rule that you agree with. A rule that is tailored to your needs.”

I scoffed, leaning back. “I don’t want rules tailored to my needs. Actually, I don’t want rules at all, if that’s an option.”

Locke watched me for a moment, expression unreadable. “I am asking what kind of rule will actually keep you safe.”

“I don’t like this,” I said.

“I am not surprised,” he replied smoothly.

The silence that stretched between us was thick and uncomfortable.

“I will help you a bit. Imagine you have a rule that outright forbids you to remove your talisman. Would that help you, or would that just make you find ways around the rule behind my back?”

I opened my mouth.

Closed it again.

Heat crept up my neck. I shifted on the couch, scowling at the floor. “That’s not fair,” I muttered.

“It is realistic,” Locke replied.

“Why do you even assume I would–”

“Will.”

I blew out a breath, flustered. “…Fine,” I said at last, sinking back into the sofa. “I don’t want a rule that says I can never take it off.”

“Good,” Locke said.

“But I also don’t want… this.” I gestured vaguely at the air between us. “You…panicking every time I do something that’s actually perfectly safe but you think otherwise.”

“What you did was not perfectly safe.”

“But nothing happened!”

“That is not how risk works. The absence of a disastrous outcome does not mean the absence of danger.”

“But it—”

“No, William. It only means you were fortunate.”

I looked away. 

“Luck is not a safeguard,” Locke added. “And we will not treat it as one.”

I exhaled slowly, some of the fight draining out of me.

“…Fine,” I muttered. 

“So,” he said, steering us back, “under what circumstances do you think removing the talisman is acceptable?”

I stared at him. “I’m…I don’t… Why are you even asking me? I’m not talking with you about this,” I said, but my words lacked the confidence I aimed for.

“Yes, you are.”

I rubbed my face. “This is so weird.”

“Just focus and try to answer the question, please. What would make removing your talisman acceptable?”

I rolled my eyes, huffing. “If there’s a good reason,” I said reluctantly. “Like I’m in danger.”

“Exactly,” Locke said. “If you are in a dangerous situation, you are absolutely allowed to use your full magical potential to keep yourself safe. Is that all right?”

“Yeah. But what counts as a dangerous situation? Like if I’m b–”

“Being bored to death is not dangerous,” he sighed. “We talked about this before.”

“But—”

“No. Boredom does not justify taking off your talisman. But otherwise, I do trust your judgement.”

I raised my eyebrows. “You do?”

A solemn nod. “Of course.”

I made a doubting face. 

“Come here,” said Locke, extending an arm towards me. 

I put the pillow aside slowly, eyeing Locke’s hand with uncertainty. Then I stood, crossed the distance between us in three steps, and put my hand into his palm. 

He drew me closer, guiding me to sit on his lap. 

I swallowed, heart hammering, the closeness warm, intimate. 

The wood crackled in the fire softly. 

“Will,” Locke said quietly. “You are not in trouble for reaching out to a magical dream. You did well by knowing what you needed. You did very well by not doing it alone, but reaching out to your friends.”

“Gavin is not my friend,” I muttered.

Locke smiled gently. “The only thing that makes me worried is that you seem not to care about the danger–”

“But–”

A gentle finger pressed to my lips. “Let me finish, please. The talisman works best when you wear it constantly. But sooner or later, you’ll grow strong enough to maintain control on your own. In a controlled environment, over measured intervals, we will begin experimenting with your full power.”

“I’m not sure I want that,” I murmured, my fingers finding the talisman and slowly twirling it around. “It feels…safe. I don’t want to burn down the Sanctum.”

Locke reached up, his fingers curling around mine. “It’s not only the safety of others we have to think about,” he murmured, drawing my hand away. “But your safety too.”

I sighed, looking away, staring into the fireplace.

“So what do you think about the rule that says if you ever need or even want to remove the talisman, you ask me. Before, if you can, or immediately after.”

“I don’t like that you are asking my opinion about a rule,” I murmured.

“I know,” he said, his hand around my hips squeezing me gently. “Answer me anyway, please.”

“I– So if I ask you about removing the talisman, you can stay still no?”

“Of course.”

I sighed. “All right, then, I guess.”

The silence that stretched between us wasn’t uncomfortable now. I leaned closer to him, feeling the slow rising of his chest as he breathed. The fire crackled in the hearth, throwing warm light across the room, shadows dancing lazily up the walls. The silence settled around us like a blanket, heavy and warm.

Then Locke took a slow breath. 

“There’s one more thing,” he said. “About that potion you made.”

“That potion was not important,” I groaned.

“You are allowed to learn,” Locke continued. “You are allowed to try new potions, to experiment. But you are not allowed to drink experimental draughts that affect your body or mind. If I ever find out you are doing that, you will get severely punished. Is that clear?”

I swallowed. “So it’s all right if you don’t find out?”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t move at all. He simply looked at me—slow, deliberate, deeply unimpressed.

My stomach dropped.

“I will ask you again,” he said softly, reaching up and brushing a curl of hair out of my eyes. “Is that clear?”

I tried to swallow again, but my throat was dry and tight. His fingers smoothed down on my temple, on my cheeks, coming to a halt just under my chin, gentle and light. “Well?” he asked quietly.

I shifted on his lap, acutely aware of how little space there was between us now. 

“Yes,” I muttered.

His eyebrow raised slowly.

I managed to swallow. “Yes, sir.” 

A subtle shift in his body. Not satisfaction exactly—something calmer, steadier. Approval, maybe. “Good,” he said. “Good, William. Very good.”

I huffed under my breath, some parts of me yearning to be defiant, to fight, to at least lean away…but that was impossible without fully removing myself from his lap, and his arm tightened just enough to keep me in place.

“Sit still,” he murmured.

He adjusted our positions until I was leaning against him, my back against his chest, his arms around my hips. 

“You know how proud I am of you, do you?”

I huffed. “There’s really not a lot to be proud of.”

“Is that so?” he said coolly, his arms tightening around me. “Would you like to write lines about that?”

My stomach dropped. “No.”

“Then listen to me, please.”

I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t move.

“You are learning so much. You have a magical power that would absolutely terrify most magicians, and you are learning to control it. You are getting better every day. You take a lot of lessons, you pay attention, you study.”

“I mean,” I muttered, “it’s not like you give me a lot of other options—”

“William.”

I shut my mouth.

“Your discipline has improved a great deal,” Locke continued. “Your weaving is more precise, your spellwork is cleaner. You have learned a lot about branches of magic you don’t even enjoy. Your use of runes shows much more confidence. You are persistent with your swordsmanship. Your focus is stronger. Also, you think before you act…” He paused, tilting his head. “...a bit more often.”

“That’s a pretty low bar,” I said weakly.

His hand pressed at my hip, firm and grounding. “You are clever. Resourceful. Unrelenting. You do not give up.”

My face felt uncomfortably warm. I shifted again, clearing my throat. “This is… strange,” I said. “Are you feeling well? Should I fetch a healer? Do you have a fever? Or did a particularly severe confusion charm hit you accidentally?”

Locke did not even blink.

“No,” he said evenly. “I am perfectly well.”

“Well, because this sounds a lot like you have severely hit your head, or—”

“I can praise you whenever I like,” he said simply.

I groaned. “No. Just stop.”

He chuckled, drawing me closer and pressing a kiss to my face. “What about writing an essay for me about your good qualities?”

I blinked. “Sure, of course. I could write whole books about how good I am at causing trouble and annoying people and—”

“Do not finish that sentence.”

“Why not? It would have been such a nice and long sentence–”

“You know what? I think you can really write that essay. Nice and long. Ten feet of the good qualities you possess, of your progression, of your successes. With examples.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but he held up a finger. “And if I catch you using the essay to be sarcastic, then I will make you read the whole thing out loud. Then you can rewrite it, and read it out loud again.”

“But–”

“And we will repeat this as many times as we need. All right?”

“No, that’s the stupidest idea I have ever—”

Locke drew me closer, the gesture strong, a bit rough. Another small kiss landed on my hair. “You have three days,” he said.

I groaned, burying my head into his shoulder. 

“Now stay like this a bit. Rest.You will have a lot to do tomorrow.”

“You know, if you weren’t assigning me this ludicrous essay, then—”

“Hush.” He leaned further back in the armchair, letting me drape over him, lying across his chest. “Just rest a bit, William. Everything is going to be all right.”

I took a deep breath, still a bit annoyed, but also kind of comfortable. 

I breathed out slowly. Locke’s hand raised up, and started to caress my hair, slow, gentle strokes over my curls, again and again. 

The room was dark. The sun had already set, and the wind was howling outside. Summer was close, but the nights were still cold—but in Locke’s room, in Locke’s arms, I was warm and cosy and safe. 

It was so annoying. I closed my eyes, and let myself relax into his embrace with a weary sigh.

Notes:

One more chapter and an epilogue after this, I think ^^

Chapter 63: Midsummer

Summary:

Celebrating Midsummer at the palace

Notes:

Hiiii
This one took me ridiculously long, which is kind of pathetic, considering I don't even think it’s any good.
Anyway. This was supposed to be the last chapter before the epilogue, but it got so long that I had to split it into two. I have adjusted the chapter count accordingly.
Please enjoy ^^

I wrote that bloody essay for Locke about my good qualities. I suffered, I swore, I crossed out long paragraphs and started again, and I even did research in the library, looking for books that listed personal qualities. I worked like I was obsessed—but in the end I managed to finish it in barely a day out of the three I had. It was neat, carefully structured, with citations and precise references in the bibliography.

I needed the rest of the time to write the alternative version. The one that was sarcastic and dark and funny, and about what perfect skills I had: for example, my ability to pretend to be dead for a decade, or how extremely good I am at destroying places, or how very marvelous I am at obeying rules I personally agree with.

I handed both of the essays to Locke on the morning of the third day. 

“You finished early,” he said, slowly looking over the rolls of parchments.

“I’m very efficient,” I said.

His eyes narrowed as he looked over me. “Did you even sleep?”

“Of course.” The day before yesterday, for sure.

He took the essays and sat down behind his desk. He gestured towards the chair for me, but I remained standing, crossing my arms and leaning against the side of his desk, watching him read. 

He started with the first essay. His expression softened almost immediately.

I tried to stay still and silent, however annoying it was.

He read slowly, thoroughly. Occasionally he glanced up at me, his gaze lingering while I tried to maintain a completely indifferent expression. Sometimes, he hummed under his breath. At other times, he made small notes on the margins. 

I took small breaths and tried not to fidget.

When he finished, he rolled up the parchment carefully. “This,” he said, tapping the edge of the roll once, “is very well done.”

I rolled my eyes.

“You were honest,” Locke continued. “Clear. Thoughtful. You gave examples. Your exposition is neat and methodised. You did a very nice job.”

Heat crept up my neck, intense and entirely unwelcome. I looked away. “I guess it was fine.”

“It was better than fine,” he said, setting the essay aside. “I am proud of you.”

Then he picked up the second essay, sending me a questioning, slightly suspicious look. 

I tried to keep my body relaxed, one hip resting against the edge of the desk, ankles crossed, posture nonchalant, expression almost bored. 

He unrolled the parchment, eyes scanning the first few lines—then, to my immense irritation, he laughed. 

I scowled at him, but he just read on. His expression did not darken. It did not harden. If anything, he looked… entertained. Lips pressed together, eyes bright, amused.

And I just kept waiting, for a comment, for a remark, for a reprimand. For a single raised eyebrow. Something.

But nothing came. 

He kept on scrolling. 

Huffing, I folded my arms over my chest. “You know,” I said, “that one is not meant to be taken seriously.”

Still nothing.

“It’s a joke,” I added, desperate. “It’s mocking your stupid assignment.”

He read several more paragraphs before finally glancing up. 

“Yes,” he said calmly. “I noticed.”

That was it. That was all he said before he went back to reading. 

I stared at him in disbelief. “Are you serious?”

He didn’t even look up.

“I said your assignment is stupid,” I pressed on.

“Yes,” he said mildly.

“This essay is a mockery of me.”

“Yes.”

“And you,” I added, just to make sure he understands.

The corner of his mouth twitched. 

He stayed silent. He was almost at the very end of the text.

With a frustrated growl, I snatched the parchment out of his fingers, my eyes scanning my writing wildly.

“Listen,” I said when I found an appropriate sentence. “I wrote: Let's not forget about my outstanding study skills. It’s important to mention that I learn best from individuals who have never once doubted their own correctness, whose faith in discipline borders on devotion, and who believe obedience is morally superior to actual thinking.” I glanced up. “What do you think? Do you like it? It’s about you, you know.”

Locke stretched out a hand, reaching for the parchment. 

I lifted it a bit higher.

He raised an eyebrow, his gaze hard, expectant.

I handed the parchment back. 

“I see you have chosen your words carefully,” he said, smoothing the scroll in front of himself. “Very… thorough.”

“And you’re just…what? Ignoring it?”

Locke only nodded. He finished reading in silence, rolled the parchment back up, and, together with my first essay, placed them in a drawer of his writing desk.

“You are not going to say anything?” I demanded. 

“No.”

“Not even telling me it’s inappropriate?”

“I don’t believe it is.”

“It’s… it’s…” I gestured helplessly with my hands, searching for words. “It’s fucking disrespectful!”

He closed the drawer and turned back to me. “It is?” he asked. 

“Of course it is! Have you gone blind or–”

Locke stood up. I watched silently as he stepped in front of me, one of his hands resting on the edge of the desk, the other slipping below my chin, tilting my head up. I could feel my pulse quickening. 

“William,” he said evenly, “You wrote a beautiful essay about your good qualities, just as I asked you.”

“That’s not the point,” I muttered, trying to avoid his eyes. 

“If you needed to write another one to be sarcastic, to make fun of me… to mock me when you feel vulnerable, I understand that.”

I blinked. “What? No. That’s totally not–”

“It can be a way of keeping control when you feel exposed.”

“That’s stupid,” I murmured.

His fingers brushed my cheek and I looked away, my pulse loud in my ears.

Then he leaned forward and pressed a small kiss to my forehead. 

“You have a lesson this forenoon, right?” he asked.

I needed a moment to collect my thoughts. “A lesson? Yes, yes. I do. But maybe I could skip this one, it’s not that–”

His gaze made me fall silent.

“You have exams next week,” he said. “Go to your lesson now. Then have lunch, come back here right after, and go straight to bed.”

“But–”

“If you can’t fall asleep, then you stay in bed and rest. You need rest, William.”

“That’s…stupid.”

“That’s an order,” he said. “Am I clear?”

I huffed, looking away. 

Locke was still very close to me—I could feel the heat of his body, his breath against my hair, his presence.

“Am I clear?” he repeated, his fingers slipping back to my chin.

“Yes,” I rasped. “Yes, sir.”

A pleased hum. “Good,” he murmured. He tilted my head up, kissed me on the lips—slow and soft, like the brush of silk across bare skin, like the petals of the softest flower, like a quiet, tingling fire…

Then he stepped back. 

I was still dazed as I walked to my lesson.

 

*

 

There was one thing no one could deny: I was persistent.

Take Locke’s bookshelf, for instance, warded with magic. Lately, I only had to ask, and he would give me whichever book I wanted to read—but there were a few titles I didn’t want to ask for.

The protective charms Locke placed on his shelves were meant to stop thieves. People who, even if they had magic, didn’t have time to carefully unravel the spell and disable it. 

I, however, had plenty of time. Long afternoons when Locke was in Council meetings, and calm evenings when he was already asleep and I lay awake, listening to the faint hum of magic around us, trying to pick apart the elements of the spell that guarded the shelf.

It took a long time, but I was persistent. Unrelenting.

 

*

 

The spring semester ended with a string of exams. My results weren’t stellar, but considering I had spent most of the term with my magic restrained—or lying half-dead in the infirmary—I was relieved that at least I hadn’t failed at anything.

The first truly warm summer day arrived just after our exams. Sol, Gavin and I went for a walk into town, explored some shops, strolled along the riverbank, and bought iced tea with dried flower petals from a little stand in the park. In the narrow, cobbled streets of the old town, I finally managed to shake off my guards. For thirty very pleasant minutes, I could simply just enjoy the sunlight, spilling over the centuries-old stone walls and reflecting off the colourful windows…

“Where are your guards?” Sol asked as we stepped out of a tiny shop selling antiques.

“Looking for us at the other end of the city, hopefully,” I said with a shrug. 

Sol stopped. “What?”

“They lost our trail when we went straight up to the bookshop loft through the back exit of that apothecary,” I grinned.

“Will…” Sol muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “We should go back to the Sanctum.”

“No way!”

“But if something happens–” Sol muttered. 

“Nothing’s going to happen,” I waved him off. “And if it does, I will make it look like Gavin’s fault.”

Gavin—that traitor—sided with Sol after that, and we ended up turning back towards the Sanctum. 

Unfortunately, the guards arrived before we did, which earned me a fifteen-minute lecture from Locke. Two days later, a letter from my father arrived too, stating plainly that if I wanted to have the privilege of  leaving the Sanctum, I had better follow his rules.

“Pffft,” I scoffed, tossing the letter onto Locke’s desk. “You know, we haven’t spoken for a decade, and this is all he can say? That I should just let his bloody guards follow me everywhere?”

“He’s concerned for your safety,” Locke replied, reading one of his own letters.

“From what?” I snapped. “Flower vendors? Cobbled streets? Bandits hiding in peaceful bakeries? What danger does he imagine lying around every corner here?”

Locke looked up. “Your father believed you were dead for more than a decade. And he almost lost you again not long ago. Precautions are standard for any royal child, and–”

“I am not a child,” I protested.

“And with you, there’s also personal concern. He is worried.”

I just sighed, rolling my eyes. So I’m to be trailed by a pair of overzealous shadows.

“Also,” Locke said, handing me a letter written on heavy cream paper, embossed with the palace seal. “An invitation for the Suncourt Festival.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Why did they send it to you while I only got a scolding?” I asked, as I took the envelope from him. I glanced over at the decorative letters and the small flower painted in the margin, then tossed it down next to my father’s letter. “We are not going.”

Locke chuckled. “Perhaps that’s exactly why they didn’t send it to you,” he said. “We are going.”

“No.”

One raised eyebrow. One stern look.

“Right,” I muttered, sending him a gloomy look.

 

*

 

In the summer semester, we had Locke’s Artefact Legislation course. 

The mere thought of those statutory texts made me yawn with boredom. Sol was reading books and desperately making notes days before our first lecture. Gavin had gone pale by the mention of Locke’s name, and complained that he hadn’t slept for three days when we gathered in the lecture room.

The air was warm, the sun shining brightly outside. Sol sat with his books ready and his quill poised. Gavin was in a hushed conversation with Mirn, muttering about unjust Councillors and impossible expectations; only to fall silent suddenly when Locke stepped in.

He closed the door with an ominous thud, and walked to the lectern, his pace unhurried, his eyes sweeping the hall once.

He wore a black shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, the burgundy Torch of Enlightenment stitched over his chest.

Every line perfect.

Posture flawless.

Calm. Controlled.

A bit terrifying. From the corner of my eye, I saw Gavin sliding lower in his chair.

I scoffed quietly, and Locke’s eye snapped to me instantly. I bit my lip, my jaw tensing, but I tried to stay still: leaning back in my chair, a knee pressed lazily at the edge of my desk, totally carefree, totally unbothered.

Locke only raised an eyebrow, before turning to the blackboard. A few swift, precise gestures, and white letters and diagrams appeared on the board, perfectly aligned, as he began outlining the semester’s lessons.

I exhaled sharply, glaring at him with narrowed eyes.

That morning, during our training, he made me practice some new precision drill he probably invented himself. It began with a long lecture about focus and balance and posture, and I was really trying—I was trying to pay attention—

But Locke stood right behind me. Adjusting my posture. Fingers brushing along my shoulder, my arms, positioning my wrists, my fingers. Touching. Lingering. A small weight, a gentle contact, heat crawling under my skin…

He ordered me to try again and again. I muttered back, sharp and flippant. His boots nudged my stance, his knee pressed mine apart. He was so close that I could feel the scent of his fresh shirt. 

Fingers brushing my curls as he tilted my head up. 

His voice, low and commanding, so close to my ear that his breath tickled my skin.

I huffed, squirmed, snapped—but he simply ordered me to try the drill again. The tip of his wooden sword nudged my arm higher. His hands pulled my shoulders back. A palm on my lower back made me straighten my spine.

“Again,” he said.

“Fuck off,” I scoffed, trembling and sweating as a single finger on my jaw turned my head to the correct angle.

A moment of silence. Then a single firm, stinging slap right on my ass, echoing slightly in the small courtyard. 

“Again,” Locke repeated calmly.

By the end of the training, I was drained, sore, and sweaty—and strangely mellow after Locke kept praising me once I finally got the drill right. 

Then a quick wash-up, and breakfast, and now we were sitting in the warm lecture hall. Locke, calm and collected as ever, stood by the podium, his posture perfectly straight, clothes immaculate, expression unreadable. He seemed completely indifferent to what his presence did to me as he droned on about Artefact Regulation Acts, their amendments, subsequent revisions, and the side notes by High Councillor Varen on cross-border artefact trade.

Next to me, Gavin had buried his head in his hands while Sol was dutifully scribbling, quill scratching over page after page.

Legends had said that Locke had once made an apprentice rewrite a fifty-foot essay because they quoted one statute incorrectly, writing herein instead of hereon.

I clenched my jaw, refusing to take notes, letting Locke’s words drift past me like smoke. But my eyes stayed on him, lingering on his bare forearms that flexed subtly as he explained the differences between Class II active and Class II reactive artefacts. I pressed my teeth together, forcing myself to glare.

 

*

 

That night, Locke was already in bed when I joined him, propped against the headboard with a book resting in his hand. A light-sphere cast a soft glow over the page. He didn’t look up when I slid beneath the covers, but reached out, putting a palm gently on my back. 

His breathing was steady, even, calm. I could feel the heat radiating from him, the faint scent of his soap, the soft weight of his hand.

I turned slightly, trying not to look at him, but my gaze kept drifting. To his sharp jawline, to the way his chest rose and fell with every soft breath. To his fingers, curling around his book. To his smooth face, to his dark eyes, scanning over the page. 

I let out a quiet, frustrated sigh, twisting the sheet between my fingers.

How can he be so calm, while he makes me feel like I’m unraveling?

It was unfair, totally unfair. 

“Try to sleep,” he murmured. “You are going to have a long night tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. 

The summer solstice. 

I closed my eyes, pressing into the warmth of the bed. Locke’s hand rested lightly on my back, moving in slow circles, calm and steady. The room was quiet and dark and peaceful. I listened to the soft, never-ending hum of magic around us. For a moment, my focus went to the bookshelf, searching for the protection charm… 

But I was too tired to actually concentrate. Locke’s touch was too soothing, the bed was too soft, too warm. 

Memories started to slip at the edges of my thoughts. 

In my dream, I was in the palace—I knew I was in the palace, but it was different, it was wrong. The walls were taller, stretching into shadows over my head. The arches were sharper, the air older, the shadows darker. A cold wind howled through the empty halls, carrying a whisper in a strange language I couldn’t recognise. 

I was running down a long corridor, opening doors, climbing stairs, panting, but every door I opened led to another corridor, twisting and turning, folding into itself—

Thunder cracked above me, shaking the walls and the marble floors. I stood by a tall, pointed stone window, carved with delicate tracery. The glass was long gone, leaving only jagged shards that bit into my clutching palms as I held on desperately. Lightning illuminated the city outside: streets flooded, rooftops torn apart, fires curling into the sky. 

And then I saw them.

The Dusk, everywhere. On the streets below, writhing like living smoke; in the distance, surrounding the city in a black, rolling tide; inside the palace, curling along the halls and spilling over the walls like ink. 

And inside me. My fingers clutched at my chest, clawing, tearing, as the Dusk inside whispered and sang to me, in my bones, in my blood, in my mind—waiting for my word.

And my arms moved on their own, gesturing, commanding, and the Dusk obeyed, flooding streets, shattering rooftops, crushing buildings, feeding, wrapping the reality in darkness and shadows and fears and memories—

I was running through the palace. Every step I took warped the corridors behind me, folding the grand halls into themselves, doors into mouths with jagged teeth, windows into gaping emptiness. 

I was running through the ruins of the palace, over the cracked floors and among the skeleton walls, as lightning flashed above me, casting shadows of the shattered columns and collapsed archways like reaching claws around me. Dust swirled in the air, and I could hear the screaming, my mother’s scream as she died under the fallen roof, and I ran, ran as fast as I could…

But still, the Dusk obeyed me, and my commands were all darkness and destruction and death. Down in the city, fingers tried to claw from the ground with a last thread of hope before the Dusk crushed it. Every command that formed in my mind twisted the shadows further, obeying, relentless, unyielding, a hundred echoes of my voice blending into one, an inhumane will, faithfully followed by Dusk’s measureless creatures…

I was the Dusk. I was the mightiest, an unyielding force, the only will that could never be broken, directing every shadow, commanding all that existed. I was the Dusk, and I was the ruins of the palace, and I was the raging storm, and I was the lost boy, small and lonely and weak, watching my blood mingle with the rain that washed over the world.

The storm roared. The Dusk feasted. I stood still, trying to call out, trying to scream, but my voice was gone. 

And then I was falling. Through the floor, through great halls and long corridors, and the palace turned and coiled and curled around me, and I was falling through streets and skies and different realities, through the roaring storm and through the reaching tendrils of the Dusk, through fire and water and swirling smoke—

I jerked awake with a scream.

“It’s all right,” said a voice. “It’s all right. You are awake. It was just a dream.”

My heart was hammering in my chest, and I grabbed at it, trying to claw through skin and flesh and bones, to check for the Dusk, to check if they were still hiding in there–

Warm fingers grabbed my shaking hands, firmly pulling them away from my chest.

“It was just a dream,” Locke said. “You are safe.”

“The Dusk–” I gasped.

“The Dusk is gone. It’s all right. You are awake.”

I gasped for air, my breathing ragged, sharp. Sweat soaked through my hair, running down my temples. My skin felt cold as ice.

“The Dusk,” I repeated. “In the palace. The city…”

“The Dusk is gone,” repeated Locke. “The city is safe. You are safe.”

I took a deep breath. My fingers were still trembling as I wiped the tears off my face.

“It was just a dream,” Locke murmured. “I have got you.” He slid an arm around my shoulders, holding me close. His other hand brushed my hair back from my face, tracing the line of my jaw. “It’s gone. It’s over. You are safe.”

I nodded, weak and exhausted. He drew me closer, and I pressed against his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat. 

“The Dusk…” I whispered, voice tight. “I… I was leading them…”

“Yes,” he said quietly, brushing the sweat from my temple with his thumb. “But it was only a dream. You are here with me.”

My hand reached for my chest again, this time slowly, uncertainly. “They were… inside me. It felt so…real.”

“I know,” he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of my head. “It’s normal, Will. After what happened… your mind needs to process it.”

“I don’t want this,” I whispered.

“I know,” he said softly. “It’s hard. But you are incredibly strong, darling. And it was just a dream. You are safe. I’m taking care of you.”

We sat like that for some time, in silence, by the warm light of his sphere hovering above the bed. I pressed my head against his chest, my breathing slowly evening out, as he kept his hands around me, massaging slow circles on my back. 

He slid from the bed, careful not to jostle me, and returned a few minutes later with a steaming cup of tea. The scent of chamomile and valerian filled the room. He opened the window just slightly, pulling the heavy curtains aside, letting in the fresh breeze of the summer night. 

I drank the tea in silence. Locke settled back beside me, tucking me carefully under the blankets, his hands lingering on my shoulders, brushing my hair back. 

“Is it because we are going to the palace?” I asked. 

He didn’t answer right away, just watched me, arranging the pillows around us. 

“To some extent, most certainly,” he said quietly. “The mind has a way of bringing back what it hasn’t fully processed.”

I swallowed, pressing my face closer to him. “I’m not sure I want to go back there,” I murmured. “Everything went… wrong.” 

“I know,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to my temple. “I know. But it will be different now. The Dusk is gone. We will be safe.”

I let out a shaky breath. “I just… the palace… I– I don’t know.”

“That’s all right.” His hand brushed down my shoulder, warm and steady. “You won’t be alone. I won’t leave your side for a moment, if that makes you feel safer.”

I glanced up at him. “Or, you know, I could just never set my foot in there again?”

He narrowed his eyes. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Or even a feasible one.”

“I could pretend I’m dead again,” I tried.

For a heartbeat, he just looked at me. Then he raised an eyebrow, absolutely unamused. “Let us not make a habit of that,” he said.

“But–”

“No.”

“But–”

“Absolutely not.”

“But—”

“William.” His voice was soft, but firm enough to make me shut my mouth. “Tomorrow might be hard, but you will be safe.” His fingers brushed along my shoulder. “No matter what the palace holds, we face it together. You won’t be alone.”

I exhaled slowly, burrowing deeper into the bed. 

“Thank you,” I murmured.

“Try to rest again,” he said, his voice low and steady, almost a whisper. “I will be here. Nothing can touch you.”

I took another deep breath, curling up against him and closing my eyes. 

I needed some time, but slowly the panic and the fear of the dream faded, giving place for the warmth and the comfort of being held.

 

*

 

It was getting late. I had been standing in front of the mirror for several long minutes, tugging at my sleeves and staring at my reflection in quiet desperation.

I was wearing a fresh new shirt, a warm colour of cream, with delicate traces of embroidery at the seams. The collar was stiff, unfamiliar against my throat, crisp and elegant. 

Suffocating.

And Locke had got me this emerald-green dress coat. It was tailored snugly at my waist, the fabric smooth, light enough for a summer night. Its colour was deep and dark, shot through with silver thread that caught the light when I moved. 

It made my eyes shine brighter.

It made me look like a prince.

Then there was my face, pale and white and scared. And my hair, dark red curls mingling with the light brown, a mess that refused to lie flat no matter how often I dragged my fingers through it. 

Still, there was no denying it—I looked like a prince.

Real and visible and very much alive.

And the worst—it felt almost natural. 

Shit.

Then I realised how late I was, so I squared my shoulders, tugged my sleeves straight one last time, and turned away from the mirror before I could tear my clothes off.

I ran down the stairs, through the halls, along the long corridors, my coat billowing behind me, my boots—freshly treated with nine cleansing charms—striking sharply against the floor with each step.

Locke was standing by the door that led to the enchanted garden, arms crossed, looking tall and perfect as always. He was wearing a black coat, cut from the lightest fabric, tailored close to his frame, and a crisp, cool white shirt, the collar sharp, the lines clean, simple, yet perfectly elegant. 

He regarded me with a strange expression, partly worried, partly disapproving, as I skidded to a halt beside him, trying to catch my breath.

“Sorry,” I panted. “I was… I was…”

“You were?” Locke raised an eyebrow, reaching out to smooth my collar. “Telling me to leave you alone while you dressed, promising me a dozen times that you would be here on time?”

I felt my cheeks flush. “It was… It’s just… I…” I huffed, annoyed with myself. “I look like an idiot.”

Locke’s expression softened. “You look fine,” he said, brushing my hair out from my face. “You look lovely, actually.”

“Ugh.” I rolled my eyes, yanking at my collar one last time, then stepped towards the door. “Let’s just go.”

He followed me silently as I stomped through the garden, and we stayed quiet even as we walked through the grand halls of the Citadel, decorated with flowers and colourful banners for the Midsummer Festivities. 

The small courtyard outside was full of life. The air was still warm, but it cooled quickly as the sun approached the horizon. The Council was preparing for celebration as well: lanterns hung along the walls, and the streets were busy beyond the gates. People carried flowers toward the main square, vendors set up their tables, and a feeling of excitement hung in the air, as if something beautiful was about to begin…

“We should go back,” I said, turning around.

“No,” said Locke, catching my elbow and steering me back.

“We have to,” I insisted, tugging him towards the door. “I realised I forgot…Um, something…”

“No.”

“But–”

“I know it’s scary,” he said, pulling a small vial of Auric Dust out of his pocket. “But we are going to give it a try.”

I glared at the small glass between his fingers, containing the golden powder. 

“There are so many other places we could go,” I tried weakly. “Don’t you feel like visiting…like, a beach?” 

“No.” He pulled me closer, twisting the cork free from the vial. “I think that seeing the palace, seeing your family, whole and healthy, might even help.” His hand hovered over my face, his thumb glistening with the golden powder. “Ready?”

I huffed, rolling my eyes, but in the end I nodded.

As ready as I ever would be, probably. 

Locke smeared the Auric Dust over my forehead. He took my hand, stared into my eyes for a long moment–

“Wait,” I said suddenly. 

“Yes?”

“Can we… can we not arrive by the front gate? Just… somewhere else?”

He regarded me for a moment.

“Yes,” he nodded. 

He squeezed my hand—then we were gone.

 

We appeared at one of the back gates, Locke holding my shoulder, steadying me when I staggered a bit.

“I’m all right,” I murmured, stepping aside. 

“You look really pale,” Locke said, reaching after me. 

“I’m all right,” I repeated more firmly. “Just the Auric Dust.”

Locke let me step away. Even from there, the palace was immense, majestic; before I could even think to look away, my eyes were already seeking out the great hall in the labyrinth of rooftops where, during the storm, the roof had collapsed above us.

There was no trace of it. The tiles gleamed in the light of the setting sun, perhaps a little cleaner, a little newer than the rest—but only if you knew where to look.

The palace stood whole and unscarred.

Just as it always had.

Just as it did in my childhood.

The guards opened the gate in front of us without question, the iron hinges barely making any sound. I swallowed as Locke guided me through, trying to take a few deep breaths.

The air smelled like flowers and earth and warm stone.

This side of the palace was quieter, but… not quiet. Servants moved along the narrow paths, carrying trays covered in beige linen, baskets of bread and fruit, crates of glasses and ice cream cups. There was a couple in the distance, laughing loudly as they disappeared behind the trees.

The path curved gently, leading us along the walls of the palace. Locke kept a hand on my elbow, and my mind was focused so hard on that little point of contact—I wanted to shake him off, I wanted to turn around and hide my face into his shoulder, I wanted to do anything else but walk calmly forward. 

There were lanterns lit between the hedges, their warm glow catching on the green leaves, on the colourful flowers growing in every flowerbed, on the gravel crunching beneath our boots.

A swell of voices. 

Music, quiet yet, drifting through the air.

The smell of roasted meat and fruits and cold, spiced wine.

The sounds of celebration. Laughter rising and falling. People moving, dancing, glasses clinking, the music rising and falling. 

The low hum of magic threaded through everything.

We turned a corner, and suddenly, there it was: the Suncourt Festival.

The sun hung low and red at the horizon, washing the gardens, the guests, the palace in amber light. The great doors of the huge ballroom stood open, and everything—everything my eyes could take in—was alive. Crowded. Luminous. Overflowing. 

Nobles in silk and jewels. Scholars, guild members, healers, merchants, artists, magicians and ambassadors from foreign kingdoms. Children darting between adults, clutching sweet pastries.

I could feel the shift. The subtle turning of heads. The hesitation, the stolen glances, the recognition. 

Murmurs.

A ripple of awareness.

My stomach twisted as I squared my shoulders, trying to smooth my expression into something composed, something courteous. 

What the hell are we even doing here?

I turned around, almost bumping into Locke. “Let’s go,” I murmured. “Let’s go.”

His face stayed calm, collected, but I could see some worry flash in his eyes as he tilted his head. “Are you unwell?” 

“No,” I whispered, fighting the urge to push him back towards the back of the gardens. 

“Then–”

“This is just ridiculous. Stupid. Ludicrous–”

“Breathe,” Locke said. A firm hand on my shoulder turned me back around. “It’s all right,” he murmured. “You are doing really well.”

I scoffed. My coat was light, and the evening weather started to cool, but I still felt stifling. The collar dug into my neck, my chest felt tight, and every eye—or so I imagined—was somehow on me.

Lanterns swung in the gentle breeze. Guests laughed around us, moved between the sculptures of constellations made from flowers, and drank sparkling wine on the marble terraces, beneath draping ivy and wisteria.

Two older men were whispering to each other, sneaking glances in my direction. One of three children who were chasing each other froze when they saw me, staring wide-eyed as their friend caught him with a triumphant shout. Young girls and boys giggled as we passed along the winding path, and I had no idea whether they were laughing at me or didn’t notice me at all.

Then someone bumped into me. I staggered—Locke’s steady arms supporting me at the waist—and looked down in surprise at the hands wrapped around me.

“Uncle Vil! Uncle Vil!”

It was Minna, Eldric’s little daughter. She was grinning up at me, her cheeks flushed from the running, wearing a pale-blue and ivory dress, embroidered with tiny flowers and stars. 

“I’m so happy you are here!” she shrieked. 

“Umm…” I said, shifting my weight.

“I made you something!”

She sounded so excited. Her eyes sparkled as she held out…

“It’s a crown!” she beamed. “I made it for you!”

It was a crown.

A fucking crown.

Well, made of white daisies, the little blossoms twined with some silver thread that caught the light; but still. A crown.

I froze. Minna was standing on her tiptoes, reaching up with the flowers, and I just stood still, barely even breathing, not even looking at her. 

Locke cleared his throat behind me. 

I blinked. Swallowing, I reached for the crown, taking the delicate flowers into my hand with gentle fingers. 

“Do you like it?” Minna asked, eyes bright and sparkling. 

“I— I…” I could feel Locke’s hand tighten lightly on my waist, grounding me, but it did nothing to stop the heat rushing to my cheeks. “I… Uhm, yes? I do.”

“Put it on!” She was doing a little dance now, twisting and twirling and jumping up and down. “Put it on, put it on!”

“I… I…” 

The crown wobbled in my hands. 

Locke’s fingers tightened on my waist.

Fuck it.

Hiding an eyeroll, an exasperated huff and a painful grimace, I raised up both my hands, setting the flowers atop my curls. 

Flowers. On my head. In front of everyone.

A fucking crown of flowers.

“Yes!” glowed Minna. “You look beautiful, Uncle Vil!” She clasped, bouncing around. “Can you ask your Councillor to make me those magical animals?”

Your Councillor. I felt my cheeks flush.

“Um… of course.” Clearing my throat, I straightened, letting the crown sit on my head as princely as I could manage. “Yes.” I nodded sincerely. “He will make you a whole menagerie, all right? First cats and dogs and bunnies. Then parrots and canaries and ravens and flamingoes. Then he will make you a bear, a pair of lynxes, four wolves and exactly fourteen red squirrels. Also, an elephant, some giraffes, some–”

Locke cleared his throat. 

I glanced at him with an innocent smile. “Will you manage to remember everything?”

He didn’t deem that worthy of a reply. I only received a sharp look, and then his expression softened as he crouched down beside Minna. Soon, a little swarm of magical animals was hopping around them—but I wasn’t really paying attention, because my brother Eldric and his wife Wrien were only a few steps away, and now they were moving closer. Their youngest child was asleep in Eldric’s arms.

“I’m so glad you came,” Eldric said.

“Mmhm,” I replied.

“We are all really grateful to you.”

For a moment, I just glared at him. Eldric stood in front of me, tall and composed, just as I always remembered him. Wrien rested a hand on his arm, her expression gentle, nodding. 

“I didn’t–” I started, then stopped. Let’s change the topic instead. “It’s…It’s nice to see you too. The flowers are really beautiful this year.” I waved around vaguely. 

Eldric’s mouth twitched, but he only nodded.

“Have you seen the fountains yet?” Wrien asked.

“I will definitely look,” I said.

There were animals all around us now, made from faintly glowing magic, sliding through the crowd, chased by laughing children. 

Men and women drifted past us as Locke led me on the winding paths. 

There were light silks and deep velvets, layered satin, embroidered hems, and colourful coats everywhere. Jewels caught the fading light of the sun. Flowers and ribbons were tucked into hair and pinned to coats, hanging from balconies and trellises. Laughter. Cheeks flushed and warm with celebration. Servants moved through the crowd, offering small plates and shallow bowls full of honeyed nuts, spiced figs, and fruit skewered on thin wooden sticks. Crystal goblets clinked softly, full of spicy fruit wine and dark brews steeped with herbs and citrus. 

We met Mother by a terrace, where a bard played a lyre that made petals drift into the air with every chord, in pale pastel colours that floated away towards the sun. 

She looked radiant. She was dressed in pale gold—elegant, noble, magnificent. Her hair was pinned up with small summer flowers, the petals mirroring the sky’s striking crimson colour. For a heartbeat, she looked exactly as she did when I was a child. 

For another heartbeat, she was lost under the fallen roof, with the storm thundering above–

I took a deep breath, trying to banish that thought, as I dipped my head in a careful bow. 

“Arvil,” she said softly, reaching out to brush a stray curl from my face. “I’m so glad you are here.”

I swallowed. The bard started to play another song, something that must have been well known, because people around us started to cheer and sing along.

But time seemed to be frozen around me, Locke’s hand on my lower back, and my mother standing in front of me, smiling, gleaming, her eyes glistening with happiness.

“Mother,” I murmured, swallowing. “It’s… good to… see you.”

She smiled, a little sad, a little proud, smoothing her hand down on my shoulder. “You look dashing.”

Somewhere behind her, someone made a strangled noise—Lander choked on a chocolate biscuit. The moment broke; the music swelled, the petals rising from the lyre faster and faster. Lander stepped closer, coughing, wheezing, clutching at his chest. 

“He looks dashing?” he managed at last, voice hoarse, gesturing wildly between us. “Dashing?” He wiped at his eyes, turning towards me, glaring into my face. “You appear, by the way late, and all she says is that you look dashing?” He jabbed a finger at my chest. “You know what she told me? That my collar stands askew. Askew!”

“Well,” I said stiffly, taking a careful step back, “she was right. Your collar looks like it was eaten by a bear, who then—”

“Vil,” Mother said sharply.

“He started it,” I muttered.

“The sun is setting soon,” she said. Her voice was calm, but carried a weight that made both Lander and me straighten instinctively. “Let us walk down to the lake.”

The hem of her gown, embroidered with golden thread that caught the last rays of sun, flowed like liquid light over the cobbled path. Servants and guests parted.

“You managed to arrive by sunset,” muttered Lander from the corner of his mouth. “The day when the sun sets the latest.”

I huffed. “I know you missed me.”

“I did, you idiot.” Lander slung an arm around my shoulder, pulling me close and practically dragging me along the path. I tried to protest, but he held me tight, grinning, and I—well, I let him. It was easier. 

And also kind of comforting.

The gardens were alive around us. The sun was right over the lake, illuminating the polished marble fountains, the perfectly manicured hedges, the flower gardens, the tiny, colourful pavilions, the guests, everything in a warm, bronze glow. The palace rose behind us all, vast and unavoidable, the windows gleaming in the light. 

Lander eventually released me, letting me drift slightly behind him—and back to Locke—as we approached the lake. The water mirrored the sky, rippling in gold and crimson. We ended up on a tiny wooden terrace, partly hidden by a huge willow; just a small rise at the lake’s edge, framed by flowering vines. A pair of squirrels, made by Locke’s magic, darted past us, climbing up the tree.

The whole garden seemed to hold its breath when the sun finally touched the horizon.

Then the Bells of Light chimed, and something twisted deep in my chest—I have forgotten this sound. It was clean and resonant, the sound rolling across the lake, across the gardens, threaded with magic, humming, vibrating in my veins, until the air itself seemed to sing around us. The gardens stilled, feeling, listening, absorbing.

At the final chime, when the last ray of the sun disappeared, the lanterns were released. 

There were hundreds of them, rising at once, slow and graceful, gold, ivory and emerald, sapphire and copper, dusty rose and midnight blue… some shaped like simple globes, others formed like diamonds or flower buds. Their reflection shimmered across the lake, and the water rippled as the year’s shortest night had finally begun. 

The music grew, low at first, a measured rhythm, all strings and drums… And all eyes turned to the vast marble terrace at the lake’s edge.

The Queen stepped forward. She was illuminated by the thousand rising lanterns, their light reflecting off the water, wrapping the night in a soft, golden gleam. The flowers in her hair were the deepest blue now, as the sky right after the sun’s disappearance. When the King joined her, calm and proud and majestic, the crowd cheered as one. I saw Mother laughing as the First Dance of the Midsummer began. 

Slow, deliberate steps at first. It tickled something in the depths of my mind, because these steps were ancient and ceremonial, and I had seen them every year as a child… The movements were precise, balanced, unhurried; hands meeting, parting, slow turns in perfect synchrony. 

Locke stood close enough that I could feel the warmth of his body. He was silent, but when I raised a hand to wipe at my tears, he touched my elbow, gentle and careful. 

I watched the lanterns rising. The music shifted, and the crowd began to stir, couples stepping forward to join the dance. 

The night was bright and merry and radiant. The lake gleamed; petals drifted across the water. I took a deep breath, the air getting crispier, scented with jasmine and evening primrose and the first moonflowers. We left the terrace, walking along a wide path lined with luminous flower sculptures. Lanterns slowly flickered to light between the trees—moons, stars and tiny glowing orbs, draping the celebrations in a warm blanket of light.

The bigger terraces and the balconies turned into dance parquettes, couples twirling in flowing silk, the petals of the music drifting around their legs. People wandered with tiny lanterns in the hedge maze, laughing and whispering between the hedges shaped into mythical beasts. There was more food and more fruit wine and more rising laughter, and as we rounded a corner, an elephant made from Locke’s magic wandered across the path before us, slow and majestic.

The sky was completely dark by the time we reached the bonfires. People leapt across the flames, laughing, cheering, and exclaiming when a sudden flicker sent sparks higher than expected. 

I froze, staring into the roaring fire. 

“Hold this,” I said, thrusting my half-full glass of blueberry wine towards Locke.

He didn’t move. “William–”

I rolled my eyes and let the glass hover in the air with a quick spell.

He knew I was not afraid of fire. I knew all the existing fire spells. I knew a few fire spells made up by me. I knew all the sigils, runes, enchantments, charms, curses. Every single one of them.

A bit obsessively, maybe.

The only thing I didn’t know was controlling my elemental fire, but this was not that. This was not magical. 

Locke said something, but I was already stepping towards the bonfire. My heart was hammering, fast and uneven, my magic humming under my skin, and people around me were cheering and yelling my name—Prince Arvil, Prince Arvil. 

The fire surged, sparks flying up like tiny stars. The noise around me blurred, and I ran, towards the fire, towards the flames—it was probably a very stupid thing to do, I was not ready to do this—memories flared up, my magic burning hot and wild—and I was jumping, flying over the fire—and landed safely on the other side.

There were yells and whoops and applause around me as people cheered and congratulated me. 

I turned.

Locke hadn’t moved. He was watching me with that steady, unreadable face, my glass still hovering in the air next to him. 

The night deepened, and the air cooled, crisp and fresh and fragrant with flowers and magic. We left the bonfires to walk through the butterfly conservatory, watched the fireflies by the edge of the grove, and ended up walking in the open corridors of the palace, music and laughter following us everywhere. I passed my siblings in quick flashes—Liora with her husband, waving at me from afar; Aflin, welcoming me warmly and telling me about the twelve types of flowers that were hanging from the ceiling by the staircase; Ruvan and Lander, in the middle of some disagreement; Eldric again, then finally Ilara, who dragged us back into the gardens to watch the midnight fireworks. 

Later, while Locke was deep in conversation with the Royal Mage, and I wandered off to find some quiet, I met my mother again in a private corridor. 

Then she was hugging me, and I was burying my face in her shoulder, trembling and crying. 

“Shh,” she murmured, gentle but firm. “I have you. You are safe, my little son. You are here.”

She sat me down in a bay window, and cradled my hand into her palms, and told me that she was all right, she was alive, she was well. I told her about the roof falling down on her; and she told me how quickly the healers managed to help with her injuries. Then I even told her about the Sanctum, and about my studies, and she told me how life went in the palace, and how I could maybe visit a bit longer some day. 

She took my arm and we went on a walk, and some time later we met my father in the great gallery.

He was surrounded by guests, his hands clasped behind his back, his coat formal and immaculate, a thin circlet of gold resting in his silver-streaked hair. 

A flick of his finger, and the guests were gone.

My father’s gaze was sharp and assessing, and I was painfully aware of my posture, of my clothes, of my very existence as he stepped towards me.

“Arvil,” he said. 

“Father,” I mumbled, bowing my head. I only remembered the flower crown was still on my head when it fell. I fumbled to catch it, then I just stood awkwardly, holding the flowers in my hands.

“You look healthy,” he said finally. 

“I– Uhm, thank you.”

He was just looking at me for a while, and I shifted my weight, staring down at my feet, unsure what to do. 

“I am proud of you, son,” he added. 

I glanced up. 

He looked as he always did, as he lived in my memories: perfectly composed, robe falling in precise lines, crown catching the lanternlight. 

But when his eyes met mine, they softened.

“I didn’t–” My voice caught. I cleared my throat, annoyed at myself. “I didn’t do anything particularly impressive–”

A sharp sound. “Arvil.”

I swallowed, averting my gaze. 

“Let me be proud,” he said, softer now.

Like I could stop you. You’re the king, remember?

I bowed my head. “Yes, Father.”

He placed a hand briefly on my shoulder. It was formal, restrained, but warm. “Enjoy the night,” he said. 

I nodded. Next to me, Mother was smiling, wiping at her eyes and drawing me close for another hug.

I swallowed, staring at the ornate marble floor she lifted the fallen flower crown and carefully set it back on my head.

 

Later, in the ballroom, when we were standing on the side and I was eating a honeyed fig tartlet which Lander pushed into my hand, Ilara appeared in front of us. 

“Did you receive my last letter, Councillor?” she asked Locke.

“I did, Your Highness.” Locke nodded.

She smiled, wide and cheerful. “Did you like it?”

The smallest tug in the corner of Locke’s lips. “Of course, Princess. It was unquestionably… sinister.”

“Good,” Ilara said. Then she offered her hand. “Would you like to dance with me?”

I laughed, almost choking on the tartlet. 

But then Locke was glancing at me. “Can I leave you here for a bit?”

I actually choked. Lander hit my back as I coughed. 

“Of... of course,” I managed. 

“He’s not even alone,” Lander added, grabbing two glasses from the tray of a passing waiter, pressing one into my hand. 

Locke gave me another long glance, then nodded towards Ilara. “I am honoured, Princess.” He took her hand, letting her pull him onto the dance-floor. 

What the hell. 

So I was just standing there, with a fig tartlet in one hand and a glass of wine in the other, watching Locke as he danced. 

It was like watching him perform drills on the training ground: steady and flowing and effortless. So perfect.

So annoyingly perfect.

They were talking too, like dancing was just something easy, something that you didn’t even have to pay attention to. 

When the song ended, Ilara laughed, clapped him on the shoulder, and I was just staring, mouth open, wondering what my life had become.

And it wasn’t even the end of it. Locke was in the middle of the dancefloor, and the music started again, and I barely blinked once and he was dancing with an older woman, some elegant countess, probably, listening as she spoke, nodding at the right moments, turning her around to the slow music.

Lander laughed at some joke a girl said, and the next moment he was gone too, joining the crowd on the dancefloor.

I dropped the tartlet on an empty plate, suddenly not hungry anymore, drank the wine in a few huge sips, and leaned against the wall, arms crossed, glaring at Locke and his partners.

A young girl, flushed and giggling.

Some important man of the king, a treasurer maybe, powerful and blushing.

I felt my teeth grinding together.

The Royal Mage.

My mother.

A boy around my age, nervous, eager, trying very hard to look indifferent. Locke led him with calm, easy confidence, quick steps in a lively dance that drew cheers from nearby onlookers.

A servant came my way, and I dropped my glass on the salver in his hand, scowling and grumpy. 

Then I slipped out of the ballroom.

 

I ended up on a balcony; dark and empty, not even open for the guests. It overlooked the gardens: the lake glittering in the light of the lanterns; the winding paths, the endless flowers, the statues, ribbons fluttering from the trees, the last embers from the fire-jumping, the tinkling crystal fountains in the distance… The garden was still full of guests, strolling arm in arm, chatting and sipping wine. At the edge of the maze, a couple kissed in the shadows, and I thought of Locke, of how long it had been—

I swallowed hard, biting my lip.

“Did you climb out the window?” Locke’s voice came from beside me.

“The door was locked,” I muttered, stubbornly staring at the maze’s twisting hedges. “What surprises me more is that you climbed out the window.”

Fingers touched my shoulder, then the back of my neck, at the roots of my hair.

Locke’s voice was low, warm, close to my ear. “How are you feeling?”

“Great,” I scoffed. “Excellent. And you? Have you danced with every single guest? Had some nice chats?”

Locke was silent for a moment. His fingers tightened slightly.

“Are you… jealous?”

“Fuck you,” I replied, staring at the moonlight reflected on the lake.

A moment of silence.

Then his voice, soft as silk, barely audible. “Excuse me?”

I felt the blush creeping up on my neck, turning my cheeks pink under his heavy gaze. “I– I’m…”

“Dance with me,” Locke said. 

It was not phrased as a question.

Music drifted from the ballroom, slow and resonant.

I opened my mouth to protest, to remind him that I hadn’t danced in twelve years, that this was stupid, this was a terrible idea, but he was already holding out his hand, palm up, waiting.

I stared at it. For some strange reason, my heart was hammering in my chest, and I had to swallow, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. 

“I don’t–” I started.

Locke raised an eyebrow.

I shut up and took his hand.

Shit.

He pulled me closer with a firm tug. The air was cool, but his hand was warm against my skin—and suddenly I was acutely aware of everything.

The heat of his body.

His hand at my back. 

The way he adjusted me quickly: shoulders back, chin up, elbow raised, closer–

Closer.

Even closer.

Entirely too close.

“This is–” I began.

“Hush,” he murmured, his mouth close to my ear, his breath tickling my skin. “I have got you.”   

I stumbled, almost stepping on his foot, my face turning bright red. His grip tightened, keeping me upright, keeping me close to him.

“Just follow,” he murmured.

I could barely hear the music from the loud pounding in my ears. I let him move me—steps to the side, then back, then a turn, slow, his hands holding me when I felt unsteady—his whole body leading, turning me with the slightest shift of his posture.

He drew me in, close, our bodies touching from knee to chest, and I could feel his steady heartbeat. I let him move me, his control stable and precise, his fingers brushing my ribs. My heart thudded painfully in my chest, my breathing shallow, fluttering. 

I could feel his eyes on me as he raised my hand, the movement swift and definite, and made me turn again. 

“You are beautiful,” he murmured, pulling me back close again. “Look at me.”

I realised I’d been staring at our feet. Slowly, reluctantly, I lifted my gaze to his.

He was watching me with a calm, intent focus that made my stomach flop and twist and plummet—half authority, half something warmer, something more dangerous.

I tried to pull back a little, but his grip was unyielding. Not rough—just certain.

“Stay,” he said.

“But– I can’t–”

“Just follow.”

His hand at my waist tightened, drawing me closer, until there was barely any space left between us. My pulse wobbled.

Our hips were touching. He was twirling me, our legs tangled, his palm warm and steady at my back. From the corner of my eye, I saw his smile—just a small,  satisfied curve of his mouth. 

Like he knew exactly what he was doing to me.

It was infuriating.

Unfair.

It made my knees tremble and my cheeks flush in a very un-princely way.

The music swelled. We moved as one, the world narrowing to the press of our bodies, to the heat between us, to the chords of the music, getting louder, getting faster now.

He didn’t just lead; he commanded. And I obeyed, because there was nothing else I could do, because—

The heat of his hand.

The power in his confidence.

The fucking control he had over me.

When the music surged in a quick finale, he turned me sharply. For a moment, I tried to resist, to step to the other side, and he just gave a low, displeased sound, and swiftly guided me back into a quick pivot.

The music ended, and we came to a halt. I was panting, wide-eyed, my back pressed against the stone balustrade.

Cheers and laughter drifted out from the ballroom, but the silence was deep on the balcony. I was averting my eyes, trying to catch my breath, trying not to think about his hand, still on my waist, firm and immovable.

The music started again in a slow, serene melody, but we stayed still. 

I could feel the night air brush my flushed skin. His hand at my waist. My heart, fluttering in my chest. The sounds from the ballroom—music, laughter, applause—seemed distant, irrelevant. The world had narrowed to the space between his body and mine.

“Look at me,” he said quietly.

I swallowed, raising my eyes slowly.

He was so composed. Calm and controlled. Not breathless and flushed like I was. His expression was calm, his jaw set, his face unreadable.

But his eyes…

His eyes were dark.  

I swallowed again, hard. 

“Don’t you forget,” he murmured, his thumb shifting at my side, “that I expect to be followed completely.”

My pulse stumbled.

“I… I…I told you I can’t dance.”

A faint tilt of his head.

“You were perfect,” Locke murmured. His voice was low, intimate, barely above the sound of the music.

“No, I was definitely not–”

His hand slid higher along my waist. His fingers brushed the line of my ribs, my shoulder, my throat, stealing my breath away, until they finally settled just under my chin. He tilted my head upward with two fingers, slow, firm, deliberate, forcing me to meet his eyes.

His gaze held mine for one long, breathless second.

“Are you sure you want to argue now?” he asked softly.

My pulse was roaring so loudly, I could barely hear his words.

“No,” I said, my voice low, unsteady.

“Good,” he murmured.

Something shifted in his expression. I stared up at his eyes, so dark and deep and endless–

He leaned closer, his fingers still on my chin, his gaze on me, heavy and black and ravenous—

Then his lips brushed mine. 

Once, light as a feather. Soft. Gentle.

I made a small, involuntary sound against his lips. Every nerve in my body lit at once.

He drew back, contemplating my face for a moment. 

The second kiss was not light.

A clash of lips against mine—his hand sliding into my hair, tangling, pulling me closer, anchoring, keeping me exactly where he wanted me—his other hand returning to my waist, firm, steady—

Controlled.

Claiming.

The world narrowed to heat and breath and the sharp, intoxicating feeling of his authority. He deepened the kiss, keeping me steady as my hands fisted the fabric of his coat, weak and helpless.

I was gasping for air as he pulled back.

The lights of the lanterns flickered over his cheekbones. I blinked as his thumb brushed across my lower lip, slowly, once.

“Breathe,” he said softly.

The night felt heavy and endless and full of magic.

I dragged in a deep breath.

“You are trembling,” he added.

“I’m not.”

His brow lifted slightly.

I swallowed. “It’s… the wind.”

Locke chuckled softly, glancing around.

“There is no wind tonight.”

I lowered my eyes. My breathing was still ragged, my heart pounding in my chest almost painfully.

Silence settled again, thick and charged.

My lips still felt warm and tingling.

The night stretched wide across the gardens, over the palace, fragrant with flowers and smoke and magic.

Somewhere above the lake, the sun was beginning to rise.

 

*

 

My body still felt warm when we returned to the Sanctum. 

My blood humming in my veins. My nerves humming under my skin.

The Sanctum was silent, but the music was still playing in my mind.

We were standing in Locke’s bedroom, the curtains drawn against the rising sun. He was taking off my clothes, and he was gentle—but his movements were fast, methodical. 

When he sat me down on the edge of the bed, I caught the sleeve of his shirt.

“We should–” I cleared my throat. “I mean, maybe we could– Finally–”

He looked at me for a long moment, his face unreadable. Then his hand came up, fingers brushing my jaw, tilting my face up to his.

“It’s late,” he said softly.

“Well, technically, it’s quite early…”

A soft huff. “You are exhausted.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but he just leaned down and pressed a brief kiss to my forehead.

“We are going to sleep now,” he said.

“But–”

“No.” He was rounding the bed, swiftly taking off his own clothes too. “You are tired. You need sleep now.”

“But–”

A sharp glance, and I closed my mouth. He was sliding under the blanket, taking my hand and guiding me down onto the pillow too.

“There will be time,” he murmured into my hair, wrapping an arm around my waist. 

“But–”

A soft, slightly exasperated chuckle. “Hush. Sleep now, William.”

Grumbling, I closed my eyes. 

Notes:

So after this, there’s just one final chapter (with zero plot) and then the epilogue.
Please tell me what you think ❤️

Chapter 64: At Last

The sun was high in the sky when I woke up. 

For a moment, I felt like I was still at the Suncourt Festival, the music, the lanterns in the darkness, the crowd, the laughter, the fires, Locke’s arm at my waist–

I turned to my side, grumbling, dragging a pillow over my face. My body felt heavy and exhausted, my throat dry.

Somewhere in the room, Locke said calmly, “You are awake.”

I peeked out from under the pillow. He was already dressed—of course he was—sitting in an armchair, reading a book.

Boots polished. Not a single hair out of place. Shirt sleeves rolled neatly to the forearm.

“What time is it?” I mumbled.

“Long past noon.”

I glanced at the window, at the sunlight spilling into the room, bright and clear. I closed my eyes.

“You are going to have lunch,” Locke said.

I nodded, relaxing back into the pillow. 

“And then,” he continued, perfectly calm, “we will train.”

My eyes snapped open.

“What?”

“Train.”

I pushed myself up to my elbows. “You can’t be serious.”

Locke put his book aside and looked at me.

He didn’t seem annoyed. Not even impatient, tense, or amused.

No, he simply looked certain. “I am entirely serious.”

“But–”

“We won’t have an argument about this,” he stated, taking the book back into his hands. “Get dressed.”

I found myself gaping at him. “But– You can’t– What the–”

“Lunch,” he repeated, not even looking up from the book. “Then training. Don’t be late.”

What the hell.

 

I peered through the doors of the Refectory before stepping in, but it was—fortunately—empty at this hour.

Sunlight poured through the tall windows, falling across long wooden tables, and I squinted as I sat down next to an empty plate.

Bread. Stew. Some roasted vegetables.

Concentrate on the food, not on that damned balcony.

Contentrate on the food.

So I ate, one bite after the other. The stew was warm and actually tasted very good. My stomach suddenly gave a small growl, and before I knew it I was mopping my plate with the last piece of bread.

Concentrate on the food.

I was still tired. Still dazed.

Still thinking about that balcony, damn it.

“Idiot,” I muttered to myself, then glanced around quickly, making sure I was indeed alone.

 

The training ground was quiet when I arrived, and the sun was so high now that it shone right onto the yard.

It smelled like wood and dust, and something flowery that the wind brought between the walls. Weapons and wooden swords were racked in the alcoves. 

Locke stood in the middle, arms crossed, sleeves rolled, face unreadable. Next to him lay a wooden balance beam, long and narrow, raised a little above the ground. 

“You are late,” Locke said.

“I was thinking about not even coming,” I murmured.

He raised an eyebrow, and I looked away, gulping.

“Come.”

With a deeply suffering sigh, I stepped forward. “What exactly am I supposed to do with that?” I asked, nodding toward the beam.

Locke handed me one of the swords. I took it with another sigh, the familiar weight settling into my hand almost comfortably. 

“You will balance,” he said. “And perform basic drills.”

“Wonderful,” I mumbled.

“Do you remember the Hawk’s Pivot?”

“I wish I could forget.”

The corner of Locke’s mouth twitched. He raised his own sword, pointing towards the beam. “Then you can start,” he said. 

I stared at him for a moment.

He did not blink as he stared back.

I felt my cheeks turning pink and looked away quickly, stepping onto the beam—losing my balance instantly and waving my arms around (like a fool) to steady myself. 

Locke’s face was calm and patient as I found my balance.

I huffed. “Do you really expect me–”

“Yes.”

“But now?”

“Why is this time worse than any other?”

I bit my lip, looking away, feeling the heat creeping up my neck. “It’s not,” I mumbled. “This is a perfectly good time to–” To make a fool of myself in front of you. “To do…this. This is exactly how I imagined this day.”

Locke nodded. “Good. You can start.” He took a single step closer. “Straighten your back.”

I scowled and adjusted.

“Chin up.”

I lifted my head.

“Grip the sword properly.”

“I am gripping it properly.”

A small, disbelieving huff. Then Locke raised his hand, swung his own sword in a slow, lazy arch, knocking mine out of my hand easily. 

“Again,” he said, and watched quietly as I climbed down to retrieve my sword, then stepped back on the beam again. 

I exhaled through my nose and repositioned my hands.

Then I waited.

“Go on,” said Locke.

“Do you really…” I gulped, twirling my sword around. “Do you really need to watch me?”

An amused chuckle. “Yes.”

I rolled my eyes, then closed them for a moment, taking a deep breath. 

All right.

The Hawk’s Pivot wasn’t really complicated—you needed to take a step, then quickly pivot to face the opposite direction, bringing the sword up into guard during the turn. 

But it also required swiftness and precision. Impeccable footwork, especially on the beam. Locke described it “as a hawk changing direction mid-flight.”

And while Locke moved like a hawk effortlessly, I was much less hawk-like most of the time.

With a deep sigh, I stepped forward, then pivoted, my leg landing luckily on the beam, raising my sword in a guarding position. 

Locke was silent.

I glanced at him.

“Stay,” he said quietly. 

So I stayed, my chest rising and falling, my muscles tense to keep the position and my balance. 

“If your balance is good enough,” he said finally, voice calm, measured, “you should be able to hold this position for a long time… without getting uncomfortable.”

I forced out a scoff. “Yes. I’m very comfortable. Of course. The most comfortable.”

“Good,” he said quietly.

Slowly, deliberately, he stepped closer. His eyes were on me, assessing my position from head to toe. He reached out with one hand, brushing along my arm, then settling at my elbow to adjust my stance.

I swallowed.

His hand lingered, long enough to keep me very aware of his touch. I tried to steady my breathing, but he didn’t step away.  

If anything, he moved even closer. I could feel the warmth of his body beside me.

“Pay attention to your shoulders,” he murmured.

My what? 

My brain struggled to keep up. 

“What about my shoulders?”

“You should keep them down and back, not up by your ears.”

His fingers touched my shoulders, pressing gently downward.

“They are not up–”

They were. With a huff, I lowered my shoulders, straightening my spine.

“There,” he murmured.

His hand slid down my arm—leaving a tingling trail on my skin—and stopped at my wrist, adjusting the angle of my sword.

“Your grip is too tight.”

“Maybe because I have to stand here like a fucking sculpture?”

A sharp glance. “Watch your tone, please.”

I huffed, closing my eyes for a moment.

“Again,” Locke said. 

“But–”

“Again.”

I sighed, raised my eyes to the sky (exercising truly meritorious self-restraint in not rolling them), and did the pivot again.

And again.

And again, four, five, six, ten times, until at some point I stopped counting.

“Keep your weight in the centre,” Locke said, standing close, using the tip of his wooden sword to nudge my leg back a little further.

The Hawk’s Pivot turned into the Slow Sequence, each movement deliberate and controlled (or at least they were supposed to be): lift, turn, hold, breathe, shift, hold, turn…

“Be faster with the cut,” Locke said.

“It’s called Slow Sequence,” I snapped.

He raised an eyebrow. Then only said “Again.”

I exhaled sharply, sent him a grumpy glance, and went through the movement once more: lift, turn, hold, breathe, shift the weight of the blade… The beam creaked faintly under my steps.

“Your wrist,” Locke said.

“What about it?”

“It bends.”

“Well, that’s how wrists usually work, isn’t it? It would be quite sad if it–”

His fingers closed around my wrist, correcting my position, swift and efficient.

Then his fingers lingered, brushing over the most delicate skin of my inner wrist—

“Again.”

I swallowed and repeated the sequence.

Again and again and again.

Then the Slow Sequence turned into the Four Cuts, and I slipped, waving my arms around like a complete idiot before I managed to find my balance.

Locke kept his eyes on me the entire time. “Again,” he said simply.

He stayed close. Circled the beam. Corrected my posture with a brief touch on my back. Tapped my calf to turn my feet to the correct angle. Brushed his fingers along my inner thigh, probably just because he could.

“Again,” he said. 

I glared at him and performed the Four Cuts again, slightly harder than necessary.

The blade whistled through the air.

“Too fast,” he said.

“Oh, for–”

“Again.”

I took a deep breath, but my heartbeat refused to slow down. Sweat tickled down my temples as I raised my sword again, my shadow stumbling alongside me on the rough paving stones. 

“I think this beam is slanted,” I muttered.

“Again,” Locke said.

I huffed, looking away from his gaze. I turned, shifted my weight. A high cut, a low, a thrust…

I stepped forward and nearly lost my balance entirely, Locke’s hand closing around my forearm in an instant, steadying me.

For a moment, we stayed like that, frozen, listening to my ragged breathing.

Then he released me.

“Again,” he said.

“At this point,” I muttered, trying to regain my footing, “I think you’re just doing this to watch me suffer.”

Locke tilted his head slightly.

“Your suffering,” he said, his voice low and soft, “is a secondary benefit. Now, as I said—again.”

My breathing was becoming shallow and uneven. My shirt clung to my back and my arm burned from the weight of the sword, my legs trembling slightly on the beam. My muscles felt too tight—and every time Locke stepped closer, it made focusing on the drill significantly harder than it should have been.

Locke looked perfectly calm and composed, of course.

I narrowed my eyes as I prepared my stance yet again. I cut low, then high, then stepped forward with a thrust, then pivoted—with a little more enthusiasm than the exercise required, my wooden blade cutting through the air—just close enough to Locke’s nose that he had to lean back an inch.

“Oops,” I said.

He did not flinch.

He did not even step away.

He simply raised one eyebrow.

“William,” he said mildly.

I grinned. “It was an accident.”

“Of course.”

“Entirely accidental,” I said with a nod.

“Then,” he said calmly, “you should try the Quiet River, shouldn’t you?”

My grin faded.

“No.”

Locke’s expression did not change.

“The Quiet River?” I repeated. “On the beam?”

“Yes.”

“But–”

“Now.”

I stared at him for a moment before I turned back to the beam with a deep sigh.

“Position,” he said.

I shifted my feet. The Quiet River began simply enough: knees slightly bent, sword held low, weight centred.

“Lower,” Locke said.

“I am as low as–”

“Lower.”

I bent my knees further, my thighs beginning to burn immediately.

“Back straight. Now lean forward.”

I hesitated.

Silence. But he was standing right behind me, how would I look if I just bent forward—but the silence stretched, and I had to gulp, because damn it, I could never endure these silences.

I bent forward slowly, holding the sword out, rotating my chest to the left, straightening my left knee while bending the right.

My balance wavered instantly.

“Hold,” Locke said.

My boots shifted slightly on the wood. I had to thrust my hips back to keep my balance, my sword stretched out ahead like I was reaching for something in the distance.

My ears burned.

A moment passed, then Locke stepped closer.

His hand touched the back of my knee. “Bend this a bit more.”

“I will fall.”

“You will not.”

I could feel my muscles stretch, tense, straining to hold the position. I tried to bend my knee—the shift threw me off balance—and Locke’s hand came to my hip, steadying me.

It was warm. Firm.

“Hold,” he said.

My breathing was completely uneven now. Sweat slid down my spine as my muscles strained to maintain the position.

I stayed like that for several seconds more before my foot slipped slightly on the beam and I flailed, nearly losing the whole position.

“Focus,” he said quietly.

“I am focusing,” I mumbled through gritted teeth.

“You attempted to hit me with a sword,” he said calmly. “There are consequences.”

His hands were on my hips, turning me slightly. Then they crept upward, over my stomach, then under the hem of my shirt—

I stumbled forward, falling off the beam completely, landing on the ground with a dull thud and a sharp yelp.

Locke caught my shoulder and steadied me like I weighed nothing.

“You have been unfocused for the entire session,” he said, stepping closer.

I scoffed.

Fingers caught my chin, turning my face upward. Locke’s gaze was heavy and dark, his voice soft as silk. 

“Would you like to explain why?”

I opened my mouth.

Then closed it, swallowed, and tried again.

“I–”

Locke waited.

I huffed, rolling my eyes.

“Nothing to say?” he asked softly.

“I have plenty to say,” I muttered, avoiding his eyes. “But you would probably not like it.”

“That has not stopped you before.”

I scowled.

His hand fell away from my chin as he stepped back, smoothing down the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt.

“Go take a bath,” he said.

I swallowed again, my cheeks turning pink. “And then…”

“I have some work to do.”

Something small sank in my chest.

“Oh,” I said.

He raised a hand, brushing gently over my cheekbone. “Go.”

Locke was still in the lounge when I stepped out of the bathroom. The bedroom was quiet and dark, the fireplace, for once, unlit. I dressed slowly, lingering, sitting on the edge of the bed, lost in thought, staring at the bookshelf—

It felt almost instinctive, the way I reached out with my magic to probe the protective enchantment around the books. It was intact, but now familiar, built in a pattern I could map easily in my mind. I gave it a poke, and it poked back. I slipped my left hand into the sleeve of my shirt, then wove a tiny bit of magic into the air… gently, cautiously. The protective charm trembled. Another small spell… and the first cracks appeared.

I waited, motionless, heart hammering, but nothing happened. No alarm sounded. Locke didn’t come rushing in. The bookshelf was silent and harmless, and when I wove another small spell around it, the protective magic fell apart.

Oh.

I slid off the bed. I glanced at the door: it was half-closed. Perhaps Locke was reading, or still working… I stepped to the shelf, letting my fingers trail along the spines of the books.

He’d give it to me if I asked…

For a moment, I faltered—guilt, worry, a pang of conscience—but then I just shook my head and moved to the left-hand shelf, crouching down.

The Elemental Arts of Intimacy.

The Alchemist’s Approach to Desire.

The Art of Control.

The Disciplined Body—Rituals, posture, and enchantments for training and obedience.

…Ugh, seriously?

The book I finally lifted from the shelf with careful, almost trembling fingers was a tiny volume bound in pale blue cloth: The Subtle Magic of Touch. Its pages were thin and yellowed, fragile.

I grabbed two more books from my bedside table and tried to walk into the lounge as if everything were completely ordinary and innocent.

Locke was sitting by the small table, in the armchair, leaning over some papers. He acknowledged me with a small smile and a nod as I sank into the armchair across from him, trying to look casual. 

My fingers kept drifting to the pale blue volume. I flipped it open, hiding it slightly under the edge of my other books. It was written in small, delicate letters, tiny, elegant runes curling along the margins. I flipped through the pages, reading the titles: The Expertise of Subtle Sensation, The Whispered Command, Hands That Guide, The Gentle Touch…

I stopped at Gentle Touch. A spell to convey sensation, warmth, and attention… The incantation seemed simple enough. “Channel your energy with care. Let intention lead the magic.”

Smirking, I looked up. Locke was deep in some boring document, probably about some boring artefact. 

I glanced down at the instructions. “Imagine the desired body part.” 

Blushing, I did.

“Imagine the sensation.”

Well, a soft touch. Like a brush of a feather. Lengthwise.

“Weave the incantation into the air.”

Simple enough.

But then—I knew it was a mistake the moment the magic left my fingers.

It was meant to be nothing. A flicker of sensation, a harmless brush of magic, quick enough to be deniable… but it was odd. The magic was old and sharp, a barbed edge, a catch, a twist—

Locke’s hand shot out, gripping the edge of the table hard enough that the wood creaked.

Then a sharp, involuntary sound as pain dragged out of him before he could stop it.

It was definitely not a gentle touch.

And I, embarrassed and scared and confused, giggled.

Shit shit shit shit shit.

“Sorry!” I blurted, snapping the book shut and tucking it under the others. “Sorry, it’s– I– I don’t know how– That wasn’t supposed to–”

Locke took a very long, very deep breath. 

“Come here,” he said. 

“Uhm…”

“Now.”

I swallowed. “I’m fine here, thank you.”

“Here.” He pointed to the spot right before his armchair. “Now.”

Biting my lip, I stood up. 

“Bring the book,” he added, so groaning inwardly, I grabbed the small blue volume, stepping towards him. 

He guided me between his open knees, taking the book from my hand, sparing it only a quick glance. Then he reached up, grabbed my jaw, and tilted my head towards him. 

“Do you think it was funny?”

I shook my head, the smirk completely gone from my face now. “No.”

“You were amused.”

I winced. “I– For… For like half a second. And then I was horrified. Deeply. Profoundly horrified.”

A small huff. 

“Good,” Locke said. He was looking at me with a tilted head, his eyes grazing over me from head to toe. Then he reached to the side and pulled his papers into a neat pile, setting them down before turning back to me. “Strip,” he said.

For a moment I just stared at him.

“…What?”

“You heard me.”

I gulped. “But–”

“Now.”

Heat rushed to my face. “But– that–”

His gaze didn’t move from mine. “I don’t want to repeat myself, William.”

I could feel my heartbeat pounding in my chest. Locke leaned back slightly in the armchair, keeping his eyes on me as I reached for the first button.

The room felt strangely quiet. The fabric rustled faintly as I slipped the shirt from my shoulders, placing it on the arm of the chair.

Locke’s face was unreadable, but his gaze on me felt fierce, powerful, tracking every hesitant motion as I undressed.

My ears burned as I slid my trousers down. 

He wasn’t impatient, wasn’t pushing. He only sat there, still and quiet, keeping his eyes on me.

I tossed the last piece of clothing on the top of the messy pile, staring very intently at the carpet.

I could hear my blood rushing in my veins as the silence stretched.

“Come here,” Locke said.

I took a hesitant step forward.

“Closer,” Locke said.

My stomach twisted as I obeyed.

His hand lifted slightly, a finger pointing to the narrow space directly between his knees.

I took a deep breath, stepping forward.

For a moment, he stayed silent. I fixed my eyes downward, looking somewhere to the right of his knee.

Then he took both my hands into his own, his touch slow and careful, gentle. 

“Are you embarrassed?” he asked quietly.

I could feel my face getting even hotter. 

I gulped. “Of course.”

“Good,” he murmured. “Look at me.”

I raised my eyes slowly.

“Tell me,” he continued, “what you intended to do.”

“I–” I bit my lip, turning away.

“Eyes on me,” Locke said. A finger on my jaw turned my face back towards him. “Well?”

“It… It was supposed to be gentle. I’m… I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

“Hmm,” he said. 

His thumb brushed the back of my hand, once, twice, then his touch disappeared.

“Hands behind your back,” he said quietly.

I obeyed, biting my lip. 

“You acted on impulse,” he said. He raised his hands quietly, brushing over my hipbones, tracing a circle on my thighs—then taking my cock into his fingers. I sucked in a sharp breath. “You used unfamiliar magic on another person’s body. Without warning. Without permission.”

“I…” His fingers moved slowly, caressing, barely touching. “I didn’t want to–”

A disbelieving scoff. His fingers circled my cock, tightening a bit. Pleasure shot through my spine, my toes curling into the carpet. 

“You did want to, William.”

His palm wrapped around me, moving leisurely up and down, and I was already half-hard, blood rushing to my cock, leaving me light-headed, my heart drumming along my ribs.

I flinched when he raised his hand for a moment.

“Something wrong?” he asked coolly.

“I just…I…” I was leaning slightly forward, glaring at his fingers as he held my cock on his palm, his other hand hovering over it. “I just— I mean, will you…”

A calm, cool tone. “Will I what?”

“Just… I…” I was shifting my weight, twisting around, but he held me steadily. “You know…”

“Will I do the thing you just did to me?”

My face lit up. “Uhm, yes.”

“I could,” he said quietly. Light fingers brushed over my cock, over the sensitive skin. “It was supposed to be a gentle touch, right?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” I nodded, my breathing shallow, my legs trembling slightly. “Yes, sir.”

“Hm.” He tilted his head, his hand lifting slightly, hovering over my cock. “You know, it felt like a slap.”

He did not slap me. It was only his voice, the sudden firmness, the sudden sharp edge, that made my whole body flinch, my hands flying around to protect myself.

“No,” Locke said quietly. “Keep your hands behind your back.”

“But–”

“Hands behind your back, William.”

Groaning, I obeyed, twisting my fingers together almost painfully behind my back.

“Stay like that,” Locke said, his voice low, firm, as his fingers continued their maddeningly slow strokes. 

“Please,” I muttered, my eyes glued to his hands, waiting, dreading for that slap to come. 

“Yes?” he asked mildly.

“Please just…” My breathing was ragged, my shoulders strained, my whole body tensing. “Please, could you at least tell me–”

“Did you tell me?” he asked suddenly. “Did you warn me? Did you ask for my permission?”

“But the book said it was gentle!” The words were rushing out of me. “It said it was gentle, I thought…”

“You used an unstable spell,” he said, “on my body.”

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by my heavy gasps, as his fingers were still stroking me, still guiding me harder and harder.

“Please–”

A gentle tap, just fingers patting on my skin. Still, I jumped, grabbing his wrists, trying to keep at least some semblance of control–

“Hands behind your back,” he said.

“But…”

“Behind your back, Will.”

I shook my head. “No.”

“No?”

“No.”

Locke’s hand reached up, touching my jaw gently. “Is this too much for you?” he asked quietly.

I stayed silent.

“Is this over your limit, William?”

“No,” I whispered, gulping.

“All right.” He stood up then, very close to me, hands on my back, on my shoulder. He didn’t let go, just reached to the side, to the dresser, pulling a drawer out. He rummaged a bit, then pulled out a strip of black silk. 

Then his hand was back on me, fingers curling around my cock—hard now—moving faster, tighter, and I gasped, knees trembling, struggling to stay standing… 

“You acted on impulse,” he said. “You used unfamiliar magic on another person’s body. Without warning. Without permission.”

“I—” Do we really have to be talking about this right now? “When you… when you say it like… like that, it sounds…”

“It sounds exactly like what it was,” he cut in, his hand moving even faster. “And you know better.”

I nodded, my head falling back, my eyes closing. “I know… sorry… sorry, sir…”

“And if the spell had been stronger?” he asked.

My mouth went dry, but I wasn’t able to concentrate anymore. The shame was strong, a coil in my stomach, but the sensations—his hand on me, the tightness, the warmth, the tension deep in my muscles—were even stronger.

“If it had done lasting harm?” he continued. “If you hadn’t been able to stop it?”

“Sorry,” I gasped, my hips thrusting into his hand now; his other hand on my lower back was the only thing keeping me even upright. “Sorry, sorry…”

I squeezed my eyes shut. I didn’t even remember when the last time was that I had an—

But Locke’s hand suddenly disappeared, and there was a low voice leaving my throat as I tried to chase the sensations, and suddenly he was holding my hands behind my back, keeping me in place, keeping me in position, just exactly how and where he wanted me–

“No, no, no, please…”

“Hush,” he said.

“But…” I struggled to get free. “But…”

“Hush,” he repeated. One hand stayed on my wrists, the other reached up to my face, brushing gently over my cheekbones. “All right, William. I can promise you that I won’t slap you here,” he said, his touch returning, just for a gentle pat, to my cock. “At least not tonight. All right? But I will blindfold you.”

“But…”

“Also,” he added firmly. “I don’t want to hear the word but from your mouth tonight.”

I frowned. “That’s… I… B–However…”

A quick smack on my bottom. “No.”

“Uhm, although…”

Another slap, a bit more sharp, a bit more cutting. I winced. 

“No, William,” Locke said. “No but, no however, no although, no nevertheless, not any other synonym of that word. Is that clear?”

“But this is…”

Another slap.

“It wasn’t intentional!” I exclaimed, trying to jump away as he delivered a few more stinging slaps. 

“I know,” he said then. “I know. That’s why I’m asking you to watch your words. All right?”

I huffed, biting my lip, squirming as he was still holding me by my wrists. “Yes,” I mumbled. 

“Good,” he said. 

Then his hand was gone, and the blindfold lowered over my eyes. Careful fingers tightened the soft fabric, adjusted it over my face, then brushed my skin, my cheeks, my neck, my shoulders. 

“Keep your hands behind your back,” he warned, then I could feel him settling back down on the armchair.

“Do you intend to make me stand here all night?” I asked, shifting my weight. 

“No,” he answered with a soft chuckle. “But I intend to punish you if you keep being mouthy.”

“I wasn’t even–”

“William.”

“But–”

Hands grabbing my hips, turning me to the side, one hand slipping to my cock, the other striking down on my bottom. I yelped, rising to my tiptoes, my hands sliding down to protect me.

The fingers on my cock tightened uncomfortably, drawing me back down onto my soles.

“Sorry,” I grunted.

“Hands behind your back,” he murmured. 

I obeyed, rolling my eyes, gasping for air as his fingers continued stroking me, tight and fast, almost too sharp, almost too much.

My body was screaming at me to move, to protest, to do something. I was ridiculously aware of his hands touching me, of his knees on either side of my legs, of his presence, of his control. My hands were clammy behind my back, my knees trembled, struggling to stay locked, and I bit my lip to keep myself from whimpering. 

“Keep your back straight,” he murmured, and I tried, tried to breathe, tried to stay in position, but it was so fast, the sensations just rushing over my body, and I was so vulnerable, so exposed it made me dizzy…

I groaned, catching for air as his hand shifted, palm smoothing over the head of my cock.

A hand on my hip guided me back when I tried to step away. 

“Stay,” he said. 

I dug my nails into my wrists, breathing heavily. “Do you seriously expect me to–”

“Yes,” he said simply.

My breath came in shallow bursts. I tried to straighten, forcing my knees to lock, but my legs trembled under me, my muscles quivering with every stroke. My shoulders tensed, my fingers curling tighter behind my back–

“Please,” I gasped.

His hand didn’t slow. Didn’t soften. It was a steady, relentless pace, until everything inside me felt too tight, too bright, too sharp–

“Please…” My voice broke off into a strained gasp. “This is… this is too… too much.”

“I know.”

The calm, the certainty, the control in his voice made something twist low in my stomach. 

For one terrible, hopeful moment, I thought he was going to let me finish. My body leaned into his touch on instinct, my breath hitching, the tension deep in my stomach cresting higher and higher—

And then his hand was gone.

Just… gone.

I gasped, my hips jerking forward uselessly.

Locke caught my wrists before I could do anything, holding my hands behind my back. 

“Stay,” he murmured. “Keep your back straight.”

“No…”

“Hush. Take a deep breath.”

I dragged in a shaky breath, my chest heaving. The heat in my body had nowhere to go: it throbbed low in my stomach, sharp and uncomfortable, making me squirm, making me want to stomp my feet.

Locke’s hands were smoothing up my arms, over my shoulders, down my sides.

“You are beautiful,” he whispered.

“You are cruel,” I spat. 

Locke chuckled, one of his hands slipping back to my cock. 

“No–” I tried to step away, but his fingers were suddenly around my balls, yanking me back. A high, undignified yelp left my throat. “Please–”

I wanted to rip off the blindfold. I had to fight the urge to curl forward, to twist away, to do anything that might give me even the smallest scrap of control–

My hips jerked before I could stop them. His hand tightened, not punishing, just firm.

“Still,” he murmured.

There was only his voice, his hands, the constant sensation, the unyielding hold that kept me where he wanted me. Every small movement of his fingers felt enormous, amplified by the blindfold, by the helplessness of my position. I was trying to hold my hands behind my back, damp with sweat, nails digging into my own skin.

“Please,” I breathed.

Locke just hummed, one of his hands on my bottom, keeping me in place, the other working on my cock—painfully hard—quick and forceful, relentless.

I let out a broken sound. My chest heaved, my body struggling to keep up with the rush of sensations. “I can’t–” I groaned. “Please, I’m going to–”

His hand slowed just slightly. Not enough to let me breathe, just enough to keep me balanced on that unbearable edge.

The tension coiled tighter. 

His hand was moving slowly now, but holding me tight, his thumb grazing over the head, the sensations too much, too sharp.

“Please…”

“Not yet,” he said softly.

I let out a helpless, frustrated whimper, my head falling forward. Sweat was cooling on my skin, my hands flexing behind my back, my fingers trying to hold on so tightly they ached now.

He took up the faster rhythm again.

“Fuck you,” I grunted, taking a small step away.

His hand paused—then slipped away entirely. 

My heart raced. I was left standing there, blindfolded, my skin cooling in the air, and I couldn’t know where he was or what he was doing…

A quiet voice. “Excuse me?”

I swallowed, heat crawling up my neck. “I said fuck you,” I muttered.

A small huff. A quiet hum. “You will rephrase that,” he said evenly, “if you intend to come tonight.”

My jaw flexed as I squeezed my eyes tight behind the blindfold. My heart was beating frantically in my chest.

“Fuck you… sir?”

Another soft hum, slow and considering. I wanted to reach up and tear off the blindfold. I bit down on my lip, trying to steady my breathing, swaying a bit, disorganised now without his touch.

Then his hand returned without warning; a warm, possessive touch settling on my hip, drawing me back, until we were so close I could feel his breath on my skin. An arm wrapped around my waist, and his other hand slid back to my cock, stroking me with a slow, measured movement—then slipping down to my balls, not rough, but deliberate, fingers circling with a pressure that just bordered on being painful.

“I think,” he murmured, fingers tightening enough to make me take a sharp, anxious breath, “we are going to continue this for a while.”

“But–”

A sharp slap on my bottom, hard and stinging. I let out a small whine.

“I told you I do not want to hear that word,” he said calmly. “If something is over your limit, you tell me immediately. Otherwise, you are not in a position to object.”

I breathed out shakily. My whole body seemed to tremble a bit, and his fingers were still on my balls, holding me in place, a bit too tight, a bit too restrictive–

“I could keep you right here all night,” he murmured, his fingers drawing firm circles over my hip.

“Please,” I gasped. “I’m… I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have… I’m so sorry for… for hurting you.”

The hand around my hips drew me even closer, and his fingers left my balls, letting me exhale a sigh of relief. 

He pressed a small kiss to my stomach. “It’s all right,” he murmured. “Yes, it was reckless and dangerous and disrespectful…”

“Uhm…”

“Well, you did smack me on my cock with magic,” he said, stroking over my flank. “But I know you didn’t mean to do anything harmful.”

“I didn’t,” I whispered. “I really didn’t.”

“I know. I know.” Another small kiss, his breath tickling my stomach, making me squirm a bit. Then a small tap on my bottom. “All right. Stand up straight, please.”

I did, with a slow exhale, his hands steadying me, his touch keeping me grounded. 

“Spread your legs.”

I groaned, my heartbeat speeding up. “Why?”

There was a beat of silence, Locke’s hands still on my hips, but not moving.

“Why?” he repeated slowly. I could feel my cheeks blushing, and I was restless, my muscles tensing, unable to stay still. “Maybe because you are a good boy who follows my orders?”

Oh, shit. I buried my face in my hands, but he was already grabbing my wrist and pulling my arms away.

“Hands behind your back.”

“But–”

A firm slap. “Hands behind your back.”

Groaning, I obeyed. Locke placed his hand back on my hip, squeezing gently.

“It’s not like you have options, William.”

Another small pause. The silence was heavy in the room, broken only by my ragged breathing and pounding heartbeat.

“Spread your legs.”

I did. My mouth was dry, and it was getting harder to breathe, and my whole body seemed to vibrate with tension and anticipation and vulnerability and…

Need.

Awareness.

A desire to comply. Fuck.

“Breathe,” Locke murmured as he took my cock in his hand again. “We will go to the bedroom later,” he added, as his fingers circled me leisurely, travelling up and down with maddening slowness. “If you behave, I will make you feel very good, all right?”

I let out some high, whining sound. My eyes were shut tight behind the blindfold, my fingers digging into my own wrists. My legs trembled slightly. 

He turned his hand, the rhythm quickening, and I inhaled sharply, my whole body tensing, and I bit my lip so hard that Locke’s hand left my hip, to reach up and tug my lip free. 

It all happened so fast. The pressure was building, curling deep into my stomach, tightening, a maddening pleasure, bordering on pain now, and his hand just kept stroking me as I gasped for air…

My hips kept thrusting forward, into his touch, into the sensations, chasing the end–

Then his touch was gone—he grabbed my balls and tugged.

I staggered forward with a desperate cry, my hands landing on his shoulders, trying to steady myself, trying to catch my breath. 

“Please,” I gasped.

“No,” he said.

“But–” A hand was around me, steady and immovable, and his palm slapped down on my bottom, again, sharp and painful, the sound echoing in the room. “Fuck, I didn’t– Just, please, it’s… just so close–”

“No,” he repeated. “Not yet.”

He stood up, keeping his arms around me, then took my wrist, and with his other hand on my lower back, he guided me towards the bedroom. I followed, my steps short and careful with the blindfold still on my eyes.

The air was cooler in the bedroom. I could feel the hum of Locke’s magic as he wove a quick spell, then I heard the drapes moving along the curtain rods, probably as they slid shut. 

Locke sat down on the bed, steering me to stand behind his spread knees.

“You are so beautiful like this,” he murmured, reaching up and brushing a lock of hair out from my face. 

I snorted, rolling my eyes. 

His hands were stroking over my body: my face, my neck, my shoulders; lightly travelling down my arms, drawing circles on my stomach, on my flank, massaging my thighs. Then his fingertips brushed over my cock again, and I jumped a little, letting out a small, surprised yelp, then tried to lean into his touch…

“Do you feel how desperate you are?” he asked softly.

I glared at him, my gaze hidden behind the blindfold.

“All tangled up and desperate,” he went on, his palm around my cock, slowly moving up and down. “Am I right?”

I said something that mostly sounded like ‘unhgmghgn’. Locke chuckled, his fingers tightening around me slightly. 

“Answer me.”

“No,” I muttered. “No.”

“Hmm.” His movements quickened, making the sensation sharpen, throbbing and agonising, and still, I still hoped…

It was almost embarrassingly quick. My breath hitched, my body jerking as I reached the verge of an orgasm—

Locke’s hand disappeared. He grabbed my flailing wrists, pressing them to my sides, holding me as I buckled, frantic and furious. 

“No,” I groaned.

“Stay still,” he said.  

I twisted, trying to get out of his grip. “Fuck– No–”

“Hush.”

“No, why are you–”

“Hush.”

“But–”

He stood up. The next moment I was lying face down on the bed, my legs dangling off the edge, and his hand was swatting my naked bottom a dozen times, alternating between the cheeks, hard and fast. I wiggled, letting out painful yelps, but a hand on my lower back kept me in place.

Then he was guiding me to stand up again, and we stood next to the bed. A finger slid behind the blindfold, slipping it off my face. 

I was staring up at him, firm fingers grabbing my jaw and turning my face towards him. 

He was flawless. Not even a wrinkle on his clothes, not even a piece of hair out of place. 

And I was standing in front of him, naked and sweating, my cock leaking and so hard I thought I was going to faint–

“I will ask you again,” he hummed. “Do you feel desperate?”

I tried to swallow, but my mouth was so dry I struggled, my throat wobbling. 

I nodded.

“Answer me.”

My voice was low, hoarse, raspy. “Yes, sir.”

A quiet hum of approval.

“Good,” he said, voice low and certain. “That’s how I want you right now.”

I whined quietly.

“Drink a few sips before we continue,” he murmured. I had no idea where the glass of water came from, but he held it up to my lips, slapping my hands away as I tried to drink on my own.

I swallowed. The water was cool, refreshing, Locke’s hand steady as he tilted the glass. He made me drink half of it; then set the glass down on the bedside table with a small thud. 

He grabbed some pillows, using three of them to build a pile, then guided me to lie down—my hips high, arched.

“Uhm,” I said.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, kneeling next to me on the bed. “Give me your hands.”

He took my arms gently, placing them on the small of my back. Then a thread of magic, slipping around my wrist, soft like silk—holding my hands tightly together.

“Uhm,” I said again, with more emphasis this time. 

“Beautiful,” Locke repeated, patting my arm. “Stay like this.”

Like I could do anything else.

He slipped off the bed, rummaging in the drawer of the bedside table, and I tried to crane my neck, but I couldn’t see what he was doing.

I was painfully aware how I must have looked, naked, lying on my stomach with my ass raised up high, probably flushed and dishevelled, my cock achingly hard, with my hands tied behind my back. 

Also, the position seemed to be very comfortable for something, and that thought made my heart pound so hard I could feel it deep in my stomach, pressing against the pillows. 

When Locke returned to the bed, he grabbed my ankles, parting my legs—I groaned quietly—and settled down between my knees. 

For a moment, he simply stayed there, still and quiet.

Then a gentle hand touched my ankle. Slowly, his palm slid up on my calf in an unhurried glide, fingers spreading, mapping every part of my leg. His touch was warm, steady. He reached the back of my knees, fingers brushing over the delicate skin.

I exhaled shakily.

His hand travelled higher, thumb tracing along my thigh, then back down, then up again. Slow and steady, warm, grounding—just enough pressure to make my skin feel too sensitive, too aware.

I shifted.

His fingers tightened on the top of my thigh, not harsh, but cautioning…

“Still,” he murmured.

I took a deep breath, exhaling shakily.

Then it was his other hand, brushing over my other leg. Starting from my ankles, then slowly drifting up, almost ticklish at the back of my knee, kneading my thigh…

Both of his hands smoothed over my bottom, sliding over my hips, across my lower back. He traced along my spine, first just his fingertips, feather-light, then his palms, grounding and warm…

I wiggled a bit, trying to get the pillows to touch my cock, to ease the tension—

“Impatient,” Locke chuckled. “Stay still.”

His hands moved back down, retracing the same path, even slower, even more maddening. His fingers reached my feet, and stayed there for a bit, circling my ankles, caressing the skin, tracing the lines of my bones. 

Then up my leg, slow and careful, fingers pressing in, almost like a massage.

Then the same infuriatingly slow movements on my ass, kneading my muscles, circling, squeezing and stroking.

Then sliding upwards again, mapping me with care, over my sides, over my back, down my arms, then back to my shoulders; pressing deep into the tight muscles. 

Measured. Controlled. 

“You are trembling,” he said softly.

I swallowed, suddenly aware of how obvious it must be: the shake in my breath, the way my fingers curled uselessly in the magical binds…

His hands slid lower, firm and deliberate, and my breath hitched as he palmed my bottom, his thumbs sliding between my cheeks, slowly gliding over skin, digging into my flesh—I basically jumped as his finger slipped over my hole.

“Still,” he murmured.

I whined softly, pressing my face into a pillow. It was careful, almost methodical, every squeeze of his fingers sending a pulse of heat through me. I rocked gently forward, making my cock brush against the pillows…

And he stopped me again, hands firm on my hips. “Stay.”

I bit my lip, trying not to react so obviously.

His hands stayed on my bottom now, thumbs pressing into the sensitive skin between my cheeks, fingers spreading out, gliding, pressing, squeezing in a slow, unrelenting rhythm.

A soft, frustrated sound escaped me.

“You are being very good,” he murmured. “Stay still a bit more.”

I tried. I truly tried. But my body felt restless, charged, the tension inside me ready to snap, and I could still feel myself growing more and more sensitive, more aware of every single touch, every single movement. It was maddening, the way he refused to rush now…

Then, finally, finally, his hands slid down to my cock. 

I flinched, my breathing shallow, my hands trembling, my shoulders aching a bit now from the position.

Careful fingers wrapped around me, spreading the moisture, caressing the tender skin with soft, light touches.

All my muscles tensed. When my leg kicked out, Locke only caught my ankle and put it back in position.

“Keep your legs spread,” he murmured, landing a soft smack on my bottom. 

My head started to feel strangely light. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to take a few deep breaths.

Unhurried movements. Light touches over the sensitive skin of my hole. Fingers digging into my skin, massaging my bottom, then slipping down, brushing over my balls, slowly curling around my cock…

I thrust into his fingers.

“No,” he said quietly. “Stay still.”

“But–”

Another slap. “Still.”

“I can’t,” I hissed.

“You can,” Locke said mildly. 

“I can’t,” I repeated, kicking at the bed. “You are… you are not even doing anything…”

“Do not move.” His thumb hovered over my hole, pressing lightly, as his other hand kept slowly, painfully slowly stroking my cock. “You stay exactly where I put you.”

I buried my face into the pillow.

My legs were trembling now, my muscles tensing and relaxing. I took another deep breath, shaking, shivering as I exhaled. 

He continued this slow, unhurried caress. Fingers on my inner thighs, on my bottom, gently, almost imperceptibly gliding over my hole. Stroking along the length of my cock, tenderly, with just the tips of two fingers…

I moaned into the pillow, my wrists tensing in the binds. 

It was nothing like before. Not the hurried, forceful rush, the overwhelming flood of sensation, that felt too quick, felt too much…

This was too little. The craving still gathered inside me, tightening, swirling, but this was slow…agonisingly slow…

One gentle touch.

One cautious stroke.

One slow caress.

One soft, lingering touch along my cock, then back again, fingers curling lightly around the sensitive skin–

My whole body jerked, trying to thrust into his hand.

“No,” he said lightly, placing a hand on my hip and pushing me back on the pillow. “Stay here.”

“But–”

But it’s so fucking intense. But I’m so hard already. 

A sharp smack, again, and I yanked at the magic holding my hands together, kicking at his knee with an indignant grunt.

“Are you seriously going to do this every single time I say it?”

“Yes.”

“But–” Slap. “Fuck! It’s by accident!”

“I know.” A soft palm smoothing over my bottom, soothing away the sting. “I asked you to watch your words, though.”

“How could I watch my words if you… if you are doing this?” I wiggled, trying—but unable—to get more friction. 

He hummed softly, wrapping his fingers around me, dragging them up, then down, then up again…

My breath hitched, my foot tapping on the mattress, desperately trying to relieve the tension, to do something, instead of just lying there and taking every small touch, every careful stroke.

I pushed into his touch, and then his hand was instantly gone, leaving me breathless and dizzy and annoyed as he just adjusted me back on the pillows, calm and collected. 

“Please…”

A teasingly slow caress, then another long pause. 

There was a restless desire pulsing through my veins, hot and tight, coiling deep in my stomach, making every touch feel sharper, making every soft touch feel like sparks across my skin, making me gasp and tremble and twitch–

“Are you close?” Locke asked softly.

“Ugh,” I grunted into the pillow, my voice low, hoarse. “Of course.”

“Good,” he murmured, keeping to that agonisingly slow rhythm. 

It was like nothing else ever existed. No thoughts in my brain; just Locke’s presence, just his touch, just his control. His hands were moving on me, slowly but constantly, teasing over my hole, caressing my painfully hard cock, stroking my thighs, my bottom, my hips. Every time I tried to push back, every time my breath hitched and my muscles tensed, every time I felt myself almost tumbling over the edge—his hand would retreat, his touch gone.

I was gasping for air, my throat dry, my brain fuzzy. The craving was sweet, making me float in the sensations, blissful, overwhelmed and sensitive, aching and yearning for more… I swallowed, throat tight, as another wave of sensation crashed through me, making my whole body tremble.

“You are not allowed to come,” Locke said, and for the first time, his voice sounded a bit rough too, a bit harsh around the edges.

“Ngh–”

“You are beautiful,” he murmured. “Beautiful.” His hands left me, and I tried to follow, but a firm touch on my hip pushed me back onto the pillow. “Stay.”

I did, gasping for air, squirming, flexing my wrists behind my back.

Then I heard the rustle of the blanket, like Locke was searching for something—then a small pop, like uncorking a vial. A rich, sweet, fresh scent hit me, a bit like pine, a bit like lemon or bergamot—then a soft clink as he put the glass down on the bedside table. 

Then there was a brush of his finger, wet and slick with the oil, and every nerve in my body seemed to flare as it slipped inside me. I twitched, then I went still, my muscles tense and locked tight, wanting to recoil and lean into it at the same time…
A hand landed on my hip, keeping me down. 

“Shh,” he murmured, and I realised that I was whimpering, small, desperate little sounds leaving my throat. 

“Please,” I gasped. 

“We are going to take it slow,” he said.

“I don’t want to take it slow,” I huffed, trying to push up, meeting his unrelenting palm on my lower back, keeping me down. “Please–”

“Hush.”

His finger slid in slowly. My legs trembled, my muscles tensing when stretch suddenly became uncomfortable.
He waited. His hand remained firm at my back, firm and steadying.

“Breathe,” he instructed quietly.

I dragged in a shaky breath, and he waited, giving my body time to adjust until the discomfort shifted, softening at the edges.

His other hand returned to my cock, stroking in a firm, relentless rhythm. His finger retreated a bit, then slipped back in, not rushed, not forced, but with deliberate, infuriating patience.

Sparks behind my closed eyes. I tried to thrust my hips up, tried to get more, or less, anything, just somehow escape these never-ending sensations, somehow end this sweet torture, this prolonged misery, these feelings I wanted to feel forever…

Locke did take it slow. Unhurried, careful movements, everything slick and smooth now, his hands gliding over my skin smoothly, his finger sliding inside, curling softly—pleasure blooming deep inside—

I whimpered softly. “Please…”

Locke hummed quietly, the sound deep, satisfied. “Soon,” he murmured. 

“Now,” I whined, my voice weak and desperate and pleading. “Please–”

“No.”

“Please…”

“Not yet, darling.”

Then another single, deliberate motion of his finger, a small flick, and every nerve in me lit up, coiling deep and tight. My body jerked, muscles tensing, my legs kicking out. 

Locke simply maintained the contact, perfectly measured, precise, making all my small shifts feel impossibly sharp, impossibly demanding. 

There were tears in my eyes by the time he added a second finger. 

I gasped, my hands gripping my own fingers, and I tried to close my legs, but Locke held my knees spread widely. 

“There it is,” he murmured, almost to himself, as he stroked my cock ever so slowly, so incredibly slowly, my back arching into the pressure, the intensity sweeping over me—

He stopped when I trembled violently, his fingers staying deep inside me, stretching and pressing, but his hand left—and I sobbed, so desperate now, my chest heaving, my mind spinning, letting out small, wanting, distressed sounds.

Then he moved again, slow, precise, and calculated, adding a third finger. I was crying then, trying to thrust, to rub against the pillow, trying to push him away with my legs, and we almost wrestled as he kept me in place, keeping his fingers inside, but not touching my cock.

“Breathe,” he grunted, pushing my knee aside, keeping my legs spread. “You don’t get to hurry this.”

The tension crawled higher and higher. His fingers kept stretching me open, the feeling unfamiliar and frightening and intoxicating at once, something suspended between pain and pleasure. 

“Please,” I sobbed, writhing, as his hand on my wrists kept me in place, on the pillows, bound and sweating and crying, under his control.

“Perfect,” he murmured, his voice low and approving. “You are doing very well, William. Very well.”

I moaned, digging my face into the pillow.

“Take a deep breath.”

His fingers were gone. I let out a sharp, surprised sound, craning my neck, trying to turn around. 

“Eyes forward,” he said.

“But–”

A slap on my bottom. “Eyes forward, William.”

I obeyed with an annoyed grunt, dropping my chin down on the bed.
I heard the rustle of his clothes. 

I felt the shift as he moved on the bed. 

The mattress dipped as he leaned over me, bracing himself on a hand next to my chest. 

A gentle finger spread more oil over my hole, dipping gently inside, weird and uncomfortable, a bit cold. 

Every nerve in my body was lit. I could feel the heat of his body over me, could hear his breathing, now a bit faster, a bit more ragged. 

He moved with that same, deliberate precision, pressing the head of his cock against my hole. I went completely, utterly still, but he was slow, so amazingly slow, letting me adjust, letting the sensation stretch, overwhelming, almost painful, the intensity building quickly, sharp and consuming–

My muscles tensed instinctively, then relaxed, then tensed again. It was unlike anything I had ever felt, sharp, insistent, incredible…

He felt so hard. Stretched me painfully, but my body did not care about the pain anymore, it could only feel the pleasure coursing through me, making me tremble and gasp–

He adjusted me subtly, pushing deeper, and I moaned into the pillow, the sensations sharp, overwhelming. He shifted, pulling back, then thrusting forward again, hushing me as I sobbed, my nerves flaring, the pleasure coiling deep and sharp.

“Breathe,” he murmured. “You are beautiful.” His voice was strained; I could feel his muscles trembling, I could feel him catching his breath. “You are perfect, William. Perfect.”

I couldn’t hide my reactions. My chest heaved, my legs were trembling, my hands clenched into tight fists. 

It was far better than I could have ever imagined.

He was in absolute control, unshakeable and firm.

He set the pace, slow and careful, gliding fully in, breathing heavily, fingers digging into my skin.

He leaned down, kissing the back of my head. 

Tears prickled my eyes, my chest heaving, my legs trembling violently. 

Then I cried out, muscles taut, my legs tensing, my breath hitching—

He stopped.

Just…stopped.

He stayed inside me, his breath hot against my neck, but he went completely still.

“No,” I gasped. “No, please…”

The tension was so high—my muscles contracted, my body ready—every nerve alive—trembling, desperate for release…

I writhed, trying to shift, trying to find some friction, some relief, every instinct screaming at me to move, to chase the sensation, to finally fall over that maddening edge…

“Fuck,” I sobbed, my hands behind my back uselessly trying to push at him. “Please, just… please…”

“No,” Locke said, his hand pressing firmly against my back. “Stay still.”

I buried my head into the sheets again with a high moan. “Please…”

“Not yet. Breathe.”

“But I was… I was almost…”

“I know.” A firm rub at my shoulder. “Shh, just breathe.”

I buckled as the desperation turned into a faint, dizzy resentment. “Just let me finally–”

“No.”

“But–”

His hand shifted, leaving my shoulder. Two fingers pinched around my ear, and I yelped as he leaned closer, shifting inside me.

His voice was low, hoarse, ominous. “What did I tell you about that word?”

“What?” I felt dazed, confused, for a moment not even understanding what he was asking.

A sharp pinch at my ear. I yelped, my shoulder twitching as I tried to move my arms. “Ow! It wasn’t intentional!”

“I know,” he said, his fingers brushing over my ear. Then another subtle shift as he leaned closer—a small kiss in my hair—then he was pulling back, and I cried out, from the faint pain and from all the sensations and from the sheer desperation–

“Please,” I gasped. “Please, I’m sorry, please don’t stop–”

“Shh.” A gentle touch on my wrist, and the magical binds fell away. Pain flared in my shoulders as I moved my arms. “Careful,” he murmured, voice low and unwavering. He moved beside me, rubbing my shoulders and my upper arms. I breathed out shakily, trying to still the trembling of my limbs. “Can you turn around?”

I nodded. Locke’s hands stayed on me, around me, tossing the pile of pillows aside as he helped me turn onto my back. He smoothed his hands over mine, on my chest, careful and serene, like I was delicate, like I was something important, something precious.

His gaze was so dark. I stared up into his eyes, my breathing deepening, my chest rising and falling slowly. I reached up, my fingers brushing over his collarbone hesitantly, almost shyly. 

He was still dressed; his shirt open at his throat, his trousers unfastened—his cock hard and flushed. He was already back over me, one hand wiping a curl of hair from my face, then pulling back slightly to adjust my legs, shifting me just enough so that I was perfectly positioned. 

He was still not rushing. I could feel his arousal too, I could feel his hardness against me as he pushed my legs up, I could feel his breath, carefully kept under control. 

“Breathe,” he said. He waited for my nod, then he was guiding himself back into me, slow and careful, watching my face. I buried my face in the crook of my elbow—and he stilled.

“Move your hand.” His voice was slightly raspy, but calm, full of authority. “I want to see your face.”

I whined, squeezing my eyes shut.

“Now. Move your hand.”

I did, gasping softly when he pushed forward again. His eyes stayed on me, dark and hungry, and I could not look away, just tremble and whine and stare up at him, held in place firmly as he slowly slipped into me fully. 

He let out a trembling breath. 

“Good,” he murmured. “Perfect.”

He moved slowly. His eyes were half-closed, and a small line appeared between his eyebrows. I kept staring, unable to move, unable to think. It wasn’t just the pleasure—it was the slow rising, the slow dwelling of desire, the thrill, the crush of the sensations. 

I was just floating.

Just feeling.

Just being held by his presence, by his control, by his authority.

The patience was unbearable. The way he refused to hurry. His precision. His measured shifts. My nerves on fire, and the fire spreading beneath my skin, through my veins, pooling in the depths of my stomach–

Locke moved a bit faster. I gasped for air, fingers curling into the sheets. His fingers slipped into my hair, brushing, grasping at the roots. I made small, desperate sounds as he hit that sweet spot inside me, pleasure rushing through my spine, making my back arch–

It was still not rushed. Still not chaotic. Just enough for me to feel that delightful stretch, making my legs tremble, my heart racing…

“Please, please, please,” I gasped. 

Faster still. The pace climbed, each thrust of his hips sending shivers through me, the waves of sensation creeping higher and higher, so sweet and wonderful, almost unbearable.

Then his hand slid between our bodies, reaching for me, wrapping around my length, twisting over the head, stroking slowly.

I let out a long, low whine. 

“Please–” I gasped, shivering, my chest heaving. The tension stretched tight, coiling, shattering, and I could not stop now, there was no going back—I was no longer teetering on that edge, I was falling through– “Please, please, please, let me–”

“Yes,” he murmured, firm and commanding, thrusting forward. “You may.”

It hit me all at once. My body coiled tight, then unravelled in a rush—

A trembling, shivering heat. 

My hand slapped down, fingers tangling into the blanket, my back arching, my head tilting back–

Every nerve firing, every muscle tense—then released.

Waves and waves of sensation, bright and hot, rolling through my whole body—

And Locke was still moving. I was gasping for air, covered in sweat, legs quivering, and he was still holding me, still moving inside me, firm and unrelenting, until I was trembling, shivering, utterly spent–

A small, high, pained sound left my throat. It started to get too much quickly, too sensitive, too sore—and I tried to squirm away, whining and protesting, but then Locke’s body tensed above me, and he was sucking in a sharp breath, and he was coming inside me—

It was a strange feeling, and it hurt when he finally pulled out, my whole body tender, oversensitive. But then he was over me, gentle fingers brushing over my face, through my hair, kissing me, slowly and sweetly and gently, wrapping me up in a blanket and in his body and in his care, and I let myself finally unwind, all the tension slipping away from my body, leaving me calm and peaceful and pliant.

 

My brain felt melted. Locke tried to clean me with some wet cloth, but I whined so much at the strange sensation that he gave up, and used a quick spell instead.

He brought me water, and I gulped it down eagerly, my throat dry, my mouth parched.

He opened the windows, letting in fresh air. 

He puffed the pillows.

He tucked the blanket around me, and only came back to bed when I grabbed his wrist, yanking at it with a grumpy frown.

“I can’t feel my head,” I mumbled.

Locke climbed under the blanket, getting comfortable beside me. His hand found my hair, stroking it with slow, thoughtful movements.

I just lay there. That was all I could do.

Minutes passed in silence, the warmth of the blanket settling around me, my eyes drifting shut.

Then a small kiss on my temple. 

“Good night, William.”

My eyes opened. “Mhmmh,” I mumbled. 

“Try to sleep now,” he murmured. His voice was low, barely drifting through the fog in my brain. “You did well… rest… long day…training tomorrow morning.”

My eyes snapped open.

“What?”

“Training.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am.”

I pushed myself up on my elbows. “I can’t move. Not any more. Not ever.”

“I’m sure you will be able to move eventually.”

“No. It’s like… I have no bones left. Or no muscles. I don’t know. But something important is definitely missing.” I flopped back down on the pillow. “I will just lie here for the end of time now.”

“Well, training is at the usual time. I guess you don’t want to be late.”

I scoffed, burying my face in the pillow. “You should have realised by now that I don’t really care about punctuality,” I muttered, my voice muffled.

A soft hand on my head, brushing through my curls. “I, on the other hand, do,” he said softly. “And I will punish you if you are late.”

I went still. I turned my head to the side, squinting up at him. “Really?”

“Really.”

I scowled, narrowing my eyes. “How?”

“You will find out when you are late.”

“But–”

“Hush. It’s time to sleep.”

“But–”

A crushing kiss on my lips. Locke’s hand slipped onto my nape, holding me steady as his lips parted mine, fast and forceful and making sparks fly behind my eyelids–

Then he guided my head down on the pillow. The kiss softened. He brushed my hair aside, then his lips left mine. He pressed another small kiss to the tip of my nose, then pulled up the blanket, wrapping it around my shoulders. 

“Good night,” he murmured.

I mumbled something, cuddling closer to him. His arm curled around me, soft and warm, pulling me against his chest.

Another soft kiss landed in my curls, and I closed my eyes, letting myself sink into the pillows, into the warmth of the blanket, into Locke’s gentle embrace.

Notes:

Only and epilogue after this ^^

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Apprentice Things (maybe will get a proper title someday)