Great. One more thing I’m failing at.
“I’ve been focusing on Kieran’s tournament. But I’m catching up, I promise.” I gesture to the pile of books as evidence. “See? Books. Lots of them. I’m practically drowning in knowledge over here.”
“Indeed.” He’s holding a leather-bound book, his fingers drumming against its spine. “I thought this one might also be helpful for your studies.”
He holds it out to me, and I take it carefully. The leather is soft with age, and embossed letters spell out the title:Divine Interference in Mortal Magic.
“That’s... specific.” I turn the book over in my hands.
“It discusses mortals throughout history who were blessed by higher powers. Individuals whose magic didn’t fit the traditional categories.” He watches my reaction closely. “It’s presented as mythology—ancient stories, folklore, that sort of thing. But sometimes...” He pauses. “Sometimes old stories hold more truth than we realize.”
My heart all but stops.
“Are you giving me this for my Magical Legacies essay?” I ask, my voice coming out steadier than I feel.
“Perhaps. Or perhaps just for your own edification.” He leans in slightly, like he’s sharing a secret. “Knowledge always finds its way to those who need it most, Miss Harrington. Even knowledge we don’t yet know we’re seeking.”
With that cryptic gem, he glides away from me and disappears between the stacks of books.
I wait until his footsteps fade completely before opening the book.
The first few pages are dense with archaic language. Something aboutdivine vesselsandcelestial conduitsthat sounds more like religious propaganda than magical theory.
Then I reach a page with an illustration that makes me stop breathing.
A goddess wreathed in storm clouds, electricity crackling from her fingertips. The artwork is beautiful, but it’s the woman’s face that makes my blood run cold.
T.
Not someone who looks like T. Not a distant cousin or ancestor. This is T’s face staring back at me from a page that looks centuries old. Same sharp cheekbones. Same piercing eyes. Same way of holding herself like the air bends to her will. Same mischievous smile that made me feel excited on every flight.
The caption beneath reads:Tempest, Storm Goddess, Daughter of Selene.
No way. Thiscannotbe happening.
I flip to the next page with shaking hands, reading what’s written on it.
When the stars align and darkness rises, four daughters of Selene will choose their champions. Sun, Moon, Star, and Storm—each selecting a mortal vessel to carry their light against the coming darkness. Only when all four unite can the balance be restored.
The rest of the page has been torn out.
This is insane. Completely, utterly insane. There has to be another explanation for T’s face staring back at me from an ancient book other than her being aliteral goddess.
Maybe she has an ancestor who looked exactly like her. Maybe this is a cosmic coincidence. Maybe I’m hallucinating from magical exhaustion and too much coffee. Maybe someone slipped something in my coffee. Maybe?—
But even as I grasp for rational explanations, I remember the storm. The way T touched my forehead and something changed inside me, electricity singing through my veins like it had come home.
Was she watching me the whole time? Waiting? Planning?
As the questions race through my mind, a voice whispers in my ear, one I remember from the Underworld trial.
She’s been waiting for you since before you were born. Your parents never had a choice in hiring her.
What did they say next? I don’t remember. There were so many voices, and I was focusing so hard on blocking them out that they’ve blended together by now.
Could my parents have known? Were they hiding this from me the entire time?
No, they couldn’t have. Although now that I think about it, they never questioned how T could fly through any weather. Or why she never seemed to age. Or why she always knew exactly when storms were coming.
