“That was everything,” Bastien corrected. “You just broadcast your choice to the entire city. Stood against Gideon’s manipulation and spoke truth through a network that amplifies honest intention. You should be proud.”
“I should be terrified,” she said, and there was the ghost of a smile at the corner of her mouth. “Every person in New Orleans with magical ‘abilities’ just heard me make a declaration about a magical soul bond.”
“You made an informed choice.”
“Did I? Because I’m not sure I understand it myself yet.” Delphine straightened, testing her legs. They held, though she kept one hand on the altar for balance. “I meant everything I said. But Bastien—I still need to know what this bond actually means. What it does and doesn’t do. What I’m choosing when I choose to honor it.”
“I know,” he said. “And I’ll tell you everything. But not here. Not now. You need rest. We both do.”
She looked around the chamber. The water had drained back to ankle-depth. The mirrors showed normal reflections, no more evidence loops, no more fighting frequencies. The network pulsed with steady light—no purple corruption, just Charlotte’s design operating as intended.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s get out of here.”
They gathered Charlotte’s journal, the architectural drawings, the broken circle mirror. The tools that had let them reclaim the network from Gideon’s corruption. Evidence that Charlotte had anticipated this exact scenario and prepared forit. Had trusted Bastien to find what she’d hidden and use it properly.
The climb back to the surface took longer than the descent. Both of them exhausted, moving carefully in the narrow passages, stopping twice so Delphine could catch her breath. But the network recognized them now. The glass veins pulsed with welcoming light—gold and silver woven together. The tunnel mirrors showed their reflections clearly, both of them visible, both acknowledged. This was their infrastructure now. Their responsibility. Their choice to maintain or walk away from.
They emerged into the Warehouse District courtyard just before eight o’clock. The iron panel closed behind them with a solid metallic thunk. Sealed. Protected. The network running properly underground, preserved for whoever needed it next.
The night air felt clean after hours in the damp tunnels. Bastien breathed deeply, letting his lungs clear of the charged atmosphere that had built during the broadcast. His throat still felt raw. Delphine leaned against the brick wall of the nearest building, her breathing slightly labored.
“I can’t believe we just did that,” she said.
“We did,” Bastien confirmed. “And now we deal with the aftermath.”
The Quarter had returnedto its normal rhythm by the time they walked back through it. Tourists on Bourbon Street drinking oversized hurricanes from plastic cups shaped like grenades. Street musicians playing for tips, saxophone and trumpet competing from different corners. The smell of beignets and beer and the particular sweetness of organic matter decomposing in humidity.
Charlotte’s safeguard had held. Bastien watched a tourist couple take a selfie in a shop window that had, twenty minutes ago, been broadcasting Gideon’s sermon. They smiled at their reflection, oblivious, posting the photo to social media without a second thought. The mundane world remained separate. Protected from knowledge it wasn’t ready to handle.
But Bastien noticed the differences among those who had seen it. The way people with even a trace of magical awareness glanced at mirrors now—quick, uncertain looks, as if checking whether the glass would show something other than their reflection. The shop owners who’d covered their windows with bedsheets or cardboard. The locals moving through the crowds with expressions that suggested they’d witnessed something that would take weeks to process.
Gideon’s sermon had reached everyone with magical sensitivity. Not everyone would believe it. Not everyone would care. But the seed of doubt had been planted in the magical community. And Delphine’s response had planted a different seed—the possibility that bonds could exist without being traps. That connection and freedom weren’t mutually exclusive.
Which philosophy would take root remained to be seen.
Delphine walked beside him quietly. He could feel her exhaustion radiating like heat—the bone-deep weariness that came from channeling magic through untrained channels. Her steps were careful, measured, as if she was concentrating on the basic mechanics of walking.
“You need rest,” Bastien said when they reached the edge of the Warehouse District.
“I need sleep for about twelve hours,” she agreed. Her voice came out rougher than normal, throat raw from speaking through the broken circle mirror. “And food. And to not think about magic for at least twenty-four hours.”
“I’ll walk you home.”
She nodded, too tired to argue.
They walked in silence through the Quarter. Not uncomfortable silence—just the quiet of two people who’d survived something significant and needed time to process it separately before trying to understand it together. Bastien noticed details without commenting on them. The way Delphine favored her right leg slightly, muscles protesting from standing in one position for forty-five minutes. The way she kept her hands loose at her sides, avoiding clenching them into fists that would aggravate whatever strain she’d developed from gripping the altar glyphs.
When they reached her apartment building, she paused with her hand on the door. Turned to look at him. “Thank you. For tonight. For holding the anchor. I know that cost you.”
He glanced at his bandaged palms. “It was worth it.”
“Still.” She studied his face, her expression unreadable in the streetlight. “We should talk. Soon. About what happens next. But not tonight. Tonight I just need to sleep.”
“Tomorrow,” Bastien said. “Or the day after. Whenever you’re ready.”
She smiled, tired but genuine. “Goodnight, Bastien.”
“Goodnight.”
