The technicians stared in silence.
"Backup systems engaged," I said quickly. "Good thing Ashcliff has comprehensive fail-safes."
I could feel their skepticism, but they returned to work without comment. As I moved away to check on the blood fountain installation, Malrik appeared at my side.
"Quick thinking," he murmured. "Though you might want to avoid using power in front of the lighting crew. They're familiar enough with our energy to recognize it."
"It wasn't intentional," I replied, keeping my voice low. "The power just... reacted."
"It's integrating more deeply," he observed. "Responding instinctively to protect you."
I shot him a warning look. "Not the time or place."
He nodded, respecting the boundary. "The east garden setup needs your approval. When you have a moment."
As the day progressed, I became increasingly aware of the changes that were happening to me. It no longer felt foreign or chaotic, but like an extension of myself, responding to my needs, anticipating my intentions. When I mentally calculated timing for the evening's sequence, numbers seemed to arrange themselves with unusual clarity. When I needed to find Jadaquickly, I somehow knew exactly where she was in the sprawling manor.
By evening, most of the setup was complete. Vendors had delivered their components, staff had been briefed on protocols, and the manor stood ready for tomorrow's transformation into supernatural spectacle.
I found myself alone in the ballroom, surveying our work. Everything was perfect. From the lighting angles to the seating arrangements to the strategic placement of refreshment stations.
"It's magnificent," Malrik's voice came from behind me. "Better than I envisioned."
I turned to find him watching me with an intensity that made my pulse quicken. "Just doing my job."
"Your job was to coordinate an event. You've created an experience." He gestured to the space around us. "One that perfectly captures the essence of the Scorched Gala."
Despite myself, I felt a flush of pride. "Thank you."
We stood in silence for a moment, both aware that we were avoiding the conversation that needed to happen.
"Charlie," he finally said, "about the power?—"
"Not tonight," I cut him off. "Please. I need to be focused for tomorrow."
"Tomorrow might be too late," he said quietly. "The integration is progressing rapidly. I can see it in your eyes, in the way everything responds to you."
I looked away. "I'm aware."
"Time is running out for us to reverse it," he continued. "If we wait until after the Gala..."
"Then what?" I demanded, frustration breaking through. "You'll have to sacrifice more power? All your power? Is that what you're afraid of?"
"I'm afraid of you making a decision without understanding all the implications," he replied. "This isn't just about power. It's about us."
The word hung between us, laden with meaning.
"There is no 'us,'" I said, too fast, too defensive, and far too late to mean it. "There's a professional relationship strained by a complicated accident."
"Is that really all you think this is?" He stepped closer. "An accident?"
I could feel the power responding to him, humming beneath my skin like a tuning fork that had found its perfect pitch.
"What else could it be?" I asked, though part of me already knew the answer.
"Something rare," he said simply. "A connection that even ancient texts describe as extraordinary. A balance that could be achieved if both parties welcome it."
"Welcome permanent demonic power? Having my entire life upended?" I shook my head. "Why would anyone choose that?"
