Her shadows were moving without her, sliding across the cabin walls in patterns she hadn't commanded. They twisted and coiled, reaching toward corners, retreating, reaching again like they were searching for something she couldn't see.
She sat up too fast, disoriented by the unfamiliar angle of waking in a chair instead of the loft. Gray storm-light filtered through wide gaps in the shutters, weak and cold. The fire had burned down to embers, and the boarded-up window stood as evidence that last night hadn't been a dream.
Tristan sat in a chair across from her, alert.
He hadn't slept. She could tell by the rigid line of his shoulders, the way his gaze tracked her shadows with focused intensity.
"How long have they been doing that?" he asked.
"I don't know. I just woke up." Maren pressed her palms flat against her thighs, trying to ground herself. Her magic felt like a live wire beneath her skin, crackling with energy that didn't belong to her. "Something's wrong."
"I know. I found tracks outside last night while you were sleeping."
"Tracks?"
"Humanoid. Barefoot in the snow. Shadow signature clinging to them." Tristan leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "They weren't yours."
Maren's blood went cold. "That's not possible. Shadow magic is bloodline specific. You can't just copy someone's signature without?—"
She stopped. Her grandmother's accusations. Blood-shadow crimes. The ability to manipulate, to mimic, to steal.
"Without what?" Tristan pressed.
"Without taking something from them first." Her voice came out, barely above a whisper. "Blood. Hair. Something with magical resonance that could be used as a template."
"Has anyone taken anything from you? Recently or otherwise?"
Maren tried to think, tried to sort through the chaos of the past weeks. The vandalism at her cottage. The nights she'd slept heavily, exhausted from magical interference. The times her wards had been slashed and she'd assumed nothing was taken because nothing obvious was missing.
"I don't know," she admitted. "Maybe. I wasn't looking for that kind of theft."
Her shadows lurched suddenly, snapping toward the boarded window like dogs catching a scent. They pressed against the wood, dark tendrils seeping through cracks, reaching for something outside.
Then they recoiled violently, slamming back toward Maren hard enough to make her gasp.
"What was that?" Tristan was on his feet, knife in hand.
"Something's out there." Maren stood on shaking legs, her magic roiling inside her chest. "Something that feels like me buttwisted. Wrong. Like looking in a mirror and seeing someone else's reflection staring back."
The storm howled outside, wind battering the cabin with renewed fury. Snow hissed against the shutters like static, like whispers, like voices trying to form words she couldn't quite understand.
"We need to reinforce the wards," Tristan said. "Whatever's out there got close enough to break a window last night. If it tries again?—"
"The wards won't hold against shadow magic." Maren forced herself to breathe, to think past the panic clawing at her throat. "Not standard wards, anyway. Shadow recognizes shadow. It would slide right through. That’s why nothing has worked yet."
"Then what do we do?"
"A joint circle. Combined magic, woven together so tightly that nothing can separate the threads." She met his gaze, aware of what she was asking. "It would require your energy anchoring mine. Your essence mixed with my shadows."
"What does that mean exactly?"
"It means you'd feel my magic from the inside. And I'd feel whatever you carry beneath the surface." Maren hesitated, knowing the intimacy of what she was proposing. "It's not a small thing, sharing power like that. Some people find it overwhelming."
"Will it protect you?"
"It should protect us both."
Tristan sheathed his knife without hesitation. "Then show me what to do."
