"To what end?" Thea's familiar, Ash, a quiet man with silver in his dark hair, speaks for the first time. "If someone wanted to free familiars, there are less... gradual methods."
The conversation spirals into theories. Magical interference. Environmental factors. Ancient wards failing. Everyone has an opinion. No one has answers.
I mostly stay quiet, taking mental notes, trying not to feel like an imposter.
Magnus doesn't speak to me again, but I can feel his disapproval like a weighted blanket.
When the meeting finally winds down, Thea catches my arm. "Don't let Magnus get to you. He's like that with everyone."
"He's not wrong though," I say quietly. "I'm not my grandmother. My magic is different. Weaker."
"Different isn't weaker." Thea squeezes my arm. "We need healers as much as we need warriors. Maybe more."
I want to believe her. I don't.
The walk back to the cottage is cold and silent.
Snow crunches under our feet. The moon is bright enough that the forest feels almost magical, all silver light and dark shadows. Under other circumstances, it would be beautiful.
"You didn't have to do that," I say finally.
"Do what?" Cadeon's voice is carefully neutral, but I can still feel the remnants of his anger through the bond.
"Get angry. When Magnus was being an ass."
"He insulted you."
"He's not wrong. I'm not her. I'm not powerful like my grandmother."
"He insulted you," Cadeon repeats, and there's something in his voice now. Something sharp. "You are my... you are the Ashwood mage. I will not tolerate disrespect."
I stop walking and turn to look at him. He stops too, meeting my gaze with those pale gray eyes.
"Is that the bond?" I ask. "Making you defend me? Or do you actually care?"
For a long moment, he just stares at me. Then: "I don't know."
The honesty of it catches me off-guard.
"Two hundred years of being told what to feel," he continues quietly. "What to want. What to care about. I don't know what's real anymore."
"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard."
"It's the truth."
We stand there in the snow, looking at each other, and I make a decision.
"I'm going to bake something when we get home," I announce. "Something complicated and unnecessarily labor-intensive. And you're going to sit in the kitchen and keep me company while I stress-bake my way through this entire disaster of an evening."
He blinks. "I don't..."
"Not a command. An invitation. You can say no."
Another pause. Then, so quietly: "I'd like that."
By the time we reach the cottage, I've worked myself into a proper state.
"Kitchen magic," I mutter, pulling ingredients from the pantry with more force than strictly necessary. "Like it's somehow less valid than throwing fireballs at people. You know what kitchen magic does? It feeds people. It comforts them. It heals them from the inside out. But sure, let's all bow down to the war mages who can level buildings."
