"But it cost you."
"Everything costs something."
The fire had burned low. Maren rose to add wood, aware of Tristan's eyes tracking her movement. Her shadows followed her across the room, curling around her ankles like loyal hounds.
"Your grandmother," Tristan said. "Do you think she actually did what they accused her of?"
Maren paused, log in hand. No one had ever asked her that before. Most people assumed guilt ran in bloodlines the same way magic did.
"I don't know," she admitted. "My mother never talked about it. And by the time I was old enough to ask, my grandmother was already gone."
"Does it matter? What she did or didn't do?"
"It matters to the people who want to judge me for it." She placed the log on the fire, watching flames lick at dry wood. "Blood carries memory in magic families. If she was guilty, some people believe that guilt passes down."
"That's not how guilt works."
"Tell that to Bram."
Tristan snorted. "Bram's an ass."
The bluntness surprised a laugh out of her. "He's on the Council."
"Doesn't make him less of an ass."
Maren returned to her chair, something warm uncurling in her chest. "You really don't care, do you? About my bloodline, my family's history, any of it."
"I care about what you do. Not what your grandmother might have done decades before you were born."
"Most people don't see the difference."
"Most people are scared." His eyes held hers steadily. "Fear makes everything look like a threat."
"Even me?"
"Especially you." He leaned forward slightly. "You're powerful and different and you don't apologize for existing. That terrifies people who need everyone to fit in neat little boxes."
"And you? Do I terrify you?" Her voice sounded vulnerable, but she couldn’t resist asking.
Suddenly, wind slammed against the cabin hard enough to shake the walls.
Not natural wind. The force carried magic in it, cold and sharp and wrong. The same wrongness she'd felt at the stream, at the candle, at every incident since the first storm.
The window beside Tristan cracked, causing Maren's shadows to explode outwards.
They moved faster than thought, faster than intention, wrapping around Tristan in a protective cocoon of darkness. Glass shattered inward but the shadows caught every shard, suspended them mid-air, then let them drop harmlessly to the floor.
The supernatural wind died as quickly as it had come.
Silence pressed in, broken only by the crackle of fire and their ragged breathing.
Maren stared at her shadows in shock. They remained wrapped around Tristan, dark tendrils curling over his shoulders, across his chest, around his arms. Protective. Possessive.
She'd never seen them do that before.
Not for anyone.
"Maren." Tristan's voice emerged rough. "Your shadows."
