The network’s backlash had just been physical. The real damage was psychological. Watching his central thesis be disproven. Seeing a woman who actually had a soul bond chooseclearly and freely to explore it rather than flee from it or be compelled by it.
Everything he’d built—the philosophy, the research, the corruption of Charlotte’s network—all of it reduced to what it really was. A man who couldn’t accept “no” and had spent years trying to prove that “no” was impossible.
Bastien walked to the shrine wall and looked at Elena’s photo again. She’d probably never known the depth of Gideon’s obsession. Had probably thought he was just an intense colleague or former student. Had no idea that her gentle rejection—however she’d delivered it—had launched a decade-plus spiral into philosophical rationalization and magical corruption.
He should tell her. Warn her that Gideon was returning to Bologna, that he might seek her out, that his obsession had crossed from academic to dangerous. But looking at the evidence of his breakdown—the unopened sleeping pills, the letters that grew angrier and then desperate and then just sad—Bastien suspected Gideon was more likely to avoid her entirely. To arrive in Bologna and find a different apartment to hide in, building a new shrine to his defeat.
Some people, when their worldview shattered, rebuilt something healthier. Others just found new ways to avoid facing what they’d lost.
He pulled out his phone and took photos. The mirror wall. The shrine. The letters. Evidence in case Gideon ever tried to return, in case the magical community needed documentation of exactly how far he’d gone.
Then he walked out, leaving the door open behind him. Let the landlord find it. Let whoever came next see the remains of obsession that had almost corrupted an entire city’s magical infrastructure.
Outside, the night air felt cleaner. Bastien stood on the sidewalk and extended his senses one more time through the mirror network, confirming what he already knew. Gideon’s frequency was gone. The corruption was purged. Charlotte’s design functioned exactly as intended—preserving connection while honoring choice, creating space for love that respected autonomy.
And somewhere over the Atlantic, a man who’d tried to prove that love and freedom couldn’t coexist was learning what it felt like to have both taken away. Burned out magically, philosophically defeated, fleeing back to a city where a woman who’d never loved him lived her life completely unaware of the damage her rejection had caused.
Bastien felt something close to pity. Not sympathy—Gideon had earned his fate. But pity for the waste of it. For a man who could have been brilliant, could have contributed meaningfully to understanding soul bonds, who instead had turned his pain into poison and tried to corrupt something beautiful.
“One battle at a time,” he murmured to himself.
Whatever was coming—whatever ancient threat was positioning itself while he dealt with Gideon—it could wait. Tonight he’d confirmed the corruption was purged, the villain was gone, and the woman he loved had chosen freely.
Tomorrow he’d sleep late and tend his burns and let his reserves recover. And then, when he’d rested, he’d investigate this new presence he felt stirring in the shadows.
But tonight, he was done.
He walked back through the Quarter toward his apartment. The mirror network pulsed quietly beneath the city—stable, functional, preserved. The streets had their normal rhythm. His reflection appeared in every window he passed, visible and present.
But he felt it again as he walked—that old presence in the distant dark. Not reflection magic. Not Gideon’s corruption. Something else. Something patient that had been waiting for the immediate crisis to resolve.
He whispered to himself, “One battle at a time.”
Whatever was coming could wait. Tonight he had tomorrow’s first date to look forward to. A woman who’d chosen clearly and freely. A bond that preserved connection while honoring choice. A network that functioned properly. And a defeated villain who’d learned the hard way that some lessons can only be taught, never forced.
He climbed the stairs to his building. His reflection in the entrance glass showed a tired angel who’d spent two centuries protecting what Charlotte had built, and who’d finally seen her design vindicated.
Gideon was gone. The network was stable. Delphine had chosen.
And for the first time in decades, the future didn’t feel like a threat. It felt uncertain, yes. Risky, certainly. But not terrifying.
And that was enough.
He unlocked his door. Stepped inside. The apartment felt quieter than usual. More settled. As if it had been holding its breath and could finally exhale.
Charlotte’s journal still sat on the dining table. The architectural drawings lay beside it. Evidence that she’d anticipated this, that she’d prepared the tools to counter corruption like Gideon’s. Her work continued even centuries after her death.
Bastien poured whiskey into a glass and stood at the window looking out over the Quarter. Lights twinkled in other apartments. Music drifted up from the street. The city continued its perpetual dance between decay and renewal.
And somewhere across the Quarter, Delphine was probably already asleep. Exhausted from channeling magic she wasn’t trained to handle. Tomorrow—or the next day—they’d figure out what came next. One choice at a time. One conversation at a time.
Together.
The word settled in his mind without drama. Just fact. They would figure this out together. She’d chosen that. He’d chosen that. What it meant remained to be discovered.
Bastien drained his whiskey. He should sleep. His body demanded it.
But he stood at the window a moment longer, watching the Quarter breathe in the darkness. Watching his reflection in the glass—present, visible, real.
