‘Then what is it?’
‘You,’ he breathed. ‘Only you.’
Mal looked away, but his fingers found her chin, tilting it with quiet insistence until her stare met his once more.
‘Trust me, Melinoe,’ he said, the words a ghost of breath against her skin. ‘It isn’t the curse.’
‘How am I meant to trust someone who keeps secrets fromme?’ she muttered, her voice laced with venom.
‘Ash—’
She shoved him hard, fury flashing like wildfire in her purple eyes. He flinched, recognising his misstep instantly, and raised his hands in quiet surrender.
‘Don’t you dare speak his name, Thanatos,’ she hissed, jabbing her finger against his chest.
His gaze dropped, shame shadowing his features. ‘Does he not lie to you?’ he asked quietly, as though he could not bear the storm he’d conjured in her eyes.
‘What wouldyouknow?’
‘I know your husband plays his own games,’ Thanatos said, his voice hardening. ‘And that you're neck-deep in this cursed mess because he didn’t think it necessary to tell you the truth.’
‘How dare you—’
‘Am I wrong?’ He lifted his head at last, meeting her stare with blazing sincerity. His jaw was taut, fists clenched at his sides. ‘Tell me I’m wrong, Melinoe.’
‘It’s none of your concern,’ she snapped.
‘But it is.’
‘Why?’ she challenged.
His chest rose sharply. He took a single step forward, and something fractured across his expression, something fragile and furious. ‘Because you’re my—’ But the words caught in his throat, and he turned away sharply, biting down on his fist to stop them escaping.
Mal shook her head, disbelief and exhaustion etched into every line of her face. ‘Say whatever you like, Thanatos. But even you are incapable of giving me the truth. You hoard secrets, spin half-truths, bury the rest in shadows. And now you ask for trust?’ She lifted her hands, her voice tired, but unwavering. ‘Do what you please. Be whatever it is you claimto be. But don’t ask for what I cannot give. Not now. Not to you.’
She turned, her silhouette receding into the corridor’s gloom, never once looking back.
…
‘Witchcraft is taught and learnt,’ Allegra said softly, her voice like the hush before a storm. ‘But more than that, it lives within us. It is woven into our blood, a birthright etched in every thread of our being.’ She lifted her hands and the black runes spiralling along her arms shimmered faintly. From her fingertips, a curl of green smoke unfurled, writhing like breath made visible. ‘You must feel it from within. Seek it. It lies dormant inside you. Magic slumbers until we are old enough to wield it. Witches undergo the Awakening at the age of five, when the power within finally stirs and claims us.’
‘Before then you have no magic at all?’ Mal asked, her brow furrowed.
They were seated just beyond the front doors of the shadowed castle, surrounded by dead grass that stood stiff and unmoving, untouched by breeze or breath, in a realm where wind had long since ceased to exist.
‘The magic is there, yes,’ Allegra replied, her tone almost wistful. ‘But it sleeps. It would be far too perilous for a child of two to command such force. At five it awakens, but it is still faint. The runes mark the moment our magic comes to life. That’s when we truly become witches.’
Mal glanced down at her own pale hands, ghostlike in the stillness. All she could see were the delicate black veins beneath her skin. No runes, no sign of dormant power.
‘Close your eyes,’ Allegra instructed gently. ‘Feel for it. Search for that elusive thread of magic.’
Mal obeyed, her eyelids fluttering shut. She reached inward, though she wasn’t certain how. All she found were shadows, memories she had no desire to revisit.
‘Be patient,’ Allegra murmured. ‘Your magic has been buried for a very long time. It won’t come easily. But it’s there. Waiting.’
Mal drew a long, deliberate breath and forced her shoulders to soften. She emptied her mind, willing whatever lay hidden within her to rise and lead her to that silent reservoir of power.
Nothing stirred.
