I turned my attention to the hallway leading to my room. I needed a moment to gather my thoughts and reflect on what was ahead. Sure, Keegan had felt like a new man since Malore had been taken down, but there was still a chance that Keegan could get sick again, and the only thing stopping that was completely ending the Hunger Path by closing the circle.
Keegan walked with me to my room without speaking, his presence a steady counterpoint to the restless hum threading through the Academy. The halls felt narrower tonight. They weren’t threatening, just attentive, as if the stone itself were leaning closer to hear what might go on.
Light brightened as we passed the sconces with a soft ripple of recognition rather than alarm, and I wondered, not for the first time, how much the Academy understood before any of us finally caught up.
Inside my room, the air smelled faintly of old dried herbs, familiar enough to steady my breathing. The windows were open, curtains stirring as though they were undecided about whether to billow dramatically from the fall breeze or behave themselves.
Outside, the sky churned. Clouds rolled and folded into one another, shadows threading through them like ink dropped into water, restless and displeased. Whatever news was traveling through the unseen channels of magic tonight, it wasn’t being well received.
Keegan closed the door behind us and leaned against it, arms folded, eyes on me. He didn’t try to fill the silence. He never did. That, more than anything, was why I needed him here with me. Whenever my thoughts felt too loud and too fragile all at once, Keegan centered me.
I crossed to the desk and laid out the books I’d gathered earlier, their covers worn smooth by hands far older than mine.
The Hunger Path lay open at the center, its pages dense with script that seemed to shift subtly when I wasn’t staring directly at it. Margins were crowded with notes in different hands, some sharp and precise, others looping and uncertain. It often felt like the writers themselves had wrestled with what they were trying to contain.
“This is the part that matters,” I said quietly, more to myself than to Keegan, tracing a finger along a passage I’d read so many times it felt etched behind my eyes. “The Path feeds on choice.On hunger born of wanting something that was never meant to be taken.”
Keegan pushed off the door and came to stand beside me, close enough that I felt the warmth of him at my shoulder.
“Malore chose it,” he said. “Manipulated it and created a new wickedness.”
“Yes,” I replied. “And every choice after that fed it. That’s the thing no one ever says outright. The Hunger Path isn’t just a spell or a curse. It’s a habit. A way of moving through the world that keeps taking and taking until nothing is left but the taking. I just hope closing the circle is enough to break the habits.”
“We have to believe it will.” Keegan’s eyes met mine, and I felt the familiar charge run through me.
“I hope so.” I turned a page, careful not to crease it. The illustration there was deceptively simple, a circle marked with sigils that looked almost gentle at first glance.
“The Ancient Rites were never meant to destroy or manipulate,” I said. “They were meant to remind and return everyone involved to the moment of decision.”
Keegan’s brow furrowed. “Including Malore.”
“Especially Malore,” I said, though the words weighed heavily on my tongue. “Stopping the Path means confronting the choice that started it. And everyone bound to it has a role. Even the ones who don’t want one.”
I closed my eyes briefly, letting the lines of the ritual settle into me again. I’d memorized the order, the cadence, the way the words were meant to be spoken aloud, and the way others were meant to be held in silence. There was no room for improvisation here. No clever shortcuts. The Rite demandedpresence, honesty, and a willingness to stand still when every instinct screamed to move.
Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the windowpanes. Shadows stretched and recoiled in the sky, clouds knotting and unknotting as if they were arguing with themselves.
“They don’t like this,” Keegan murmured.
“No,” I agreed. “The Hunger never does. It senses when it’s being named.”
I turned back to the desk and picked up the smaller book tucked beneath the others, its spine cracked, its pages soft with age. This one was older than the Academy itself, older even than Stonewick, if the notes were to be believed. It spoke of balance not as a static thing, but as a living agreement that had to be renewed, again and again, by those willing to remember why it mattered.
“We’re going to do this,” I said, meeting Keegan’s eyes. “Even if it means standing hand in hand with Gideon.”
Keegan’s expression didn’t change, but something in his gaze intensified. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“I know,” I said, and meant it in every sense.
I flipped another page, committing the sequence to memory. My dad’s role came first, anchoring the Rite in the physical world, his presence a reminder of what had been protected and what still could be. My father would stand opposite Gideon, not as a victim of Gideon’s curse, but as proof that the Hunger Path could be interrupted, its grip loosened, its story rewritten. That thought mattered more than any incantation. Malore didn’t have control over my father’s will.
Gideon’s place was harder to look at, harder to accept. The book didn’t soften it, didn’t dress it up as redemption or punishment. He would stand as choice embodied, as someone who’d walked close to the Path without stepping fully onto it. His agreement mattered. His honesty would matter more.
And me.
Always me.
I was the one who would speak the Rite aloud, who would open the space and hold it steady while the others faced what they had fed and what they had feared. The words settled into me with quiet certainty and a heavy responsibility.
