The corner of his mouth lifted. “A bit of both, truthfully. She’s a Hedge.”
There were two orders of magic—higher and lower—each divided into five gifts.
The lower order includedHedge, the command of plants;Hearth, the generation of heat and flame;Hands, the art of healing;Hum, the weaving of influence through sound; andHindsight, the gift of perfect memory, recalling all one had ever read or seen.
The higher order comprisedTempest, command of weather;Tremor, mastery of earth and stone;Time, the manipulation of time itself;Tether, the binding of souls; andTwilight, the most feared and misunderstood—manipulation of dreams, minds, and sleep.
All magically gifted were capable of common magics: crafting wards of protection or misdirection, temporary enchantments of movement or light, minor glamours to smooth skin or brighten eyes.
It had been ages since I had encountered any of the lower gifts. Before the curse, I had lived my life in Aurillion, the capital of Avandria, where magic was as stratified as society itself. The royals, ever obsessed with purity, deemed the higher ordersuperior and forbade unions and offspring between the higher and lower magics. They claimed it would dilute divine bloodlines and weaken their rule.
Excluded from the court’s favor, many of the lower-gifted abandoned the capital and built quiet lives in the surrounding provinces. Only theungiftedfared worse in the king’s esteem—those born without manifesting magic by their twelfth year. He feared they would one day unmake magic itself and exiled them to a barren colony beyond the kingdom’s borders. I had always found the practice barbaric. None of us chooses to whom we are born. None of us chooses the blood or magic which flows in our veins.
“Plants, correct?” I confirmed.
“Mmhmm.” He squinted from beneath his brow. “Don’t let the lack of sparkle fool you, though. She’s clever and wise. Might be able to help us understand the spell.”
Us.
It startled me that he had phrased it so. Realization struck me. I had been considering it solelymyspell, and though his participation was limited to a fortnight, it ruled us both.
“Do you often seek magical aid?”
A smirk curved his lips. “Only when the problem sleeps in my bed and threatens my ability to stay detached.”
I tipped my gaze to the sky. “You are impossible.”
“I think you meant charming,” he said. “Thank you for noticing.”
Despite myself, I smiled. A hairline crack in the porcelain of propriety I carried. Beneath it, the quiet presence of hope dared lift its chin.
Could the spell be undone?
Did I wish it to be?
Two weeks had always been a sentence. A timepiece ticking toward another century of sleep. Yet now I wondered if severingthe connection would release me, or simply return me to restless solitude.
Mav rode slightly ahead, one hand on the reins, the other resting across his thigh. He looked over his shoulder. “You’re gifted, I assume?”
The inquiry was nonchalant. The underlying interest was anything but.
“Yes.”
“Thought so.” He nodded, confirming the unspoken presumption. “Which gift?”
Cold panic flooded my limbs as I hesitated. Even here, even with him, a man whose fate was temporarily entwined with mine, the truth was dangerous. “If I tell you, would you keep it in confidence?”
He pulled his horse to a stop, furrowing his brows as I halted beside him. “Yes, of course?—”
“Swear it, Mav. You must not tell a soul,” I said, reaching for his hand, hoping the touch would convey my earnestness. “Neither friend nor foe.”
He closed his warm fingers around mine absentmindedly. “Quinn, I swear, I won’t breathe a word, but…what gift could make you so afraid?” He huffed a laugh. “I mean, it’s not like you’re a mind-manipulating Twilight that could control my every thought and dream.”
My mouth fell open unbidden as I froze, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. Three centuries of secrecy, and with one careless jest, the truth hung naked between us.
Only weeks after my eleventh birthday, King Edric Leonard Renaudin III issued his decree: all Twilights were to be deemed enemies of the realm and executed upon capture. My gift had only begun to stir then—whispers in my sleep, glimpses of others’ dreams—but my parents were terrified. The king’s fear of ourkind had infected the kingdom, and nowhere was safe for a child touched by Twilight.
It was then that my father, a Tremor, began the tower. He claimed it was meant as a retreat, a place of study and reflection. In truth, it was a refuge, a place hidden deep within our lands where his daughter could grow without being seen. My father used his power over earth and stone to build my salvation, never knowing he was also constructing my future prison and tomb.
