“No,” he says. “You didn’t.”
I stiffen. “You don’t know that.”
His gaze sharpens, fury twisting into something raw. “Kael was there.”
The words freeze me.
“You smell like him,” Raiden says, softer now, too soft. “His shadow magic clinging to you. To your skin.” He lifts a hand but stops short of touching me, fingers trembling as if he’s fighting himself. “What did he do?”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Nothing.”
“Lindsay.”
God, why does he have to say my name like that?
“He saved me,” I admit, barely above a whisper.
Raiden’s jaw flexes so hard I hear his teeth grind. “Of course he did.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“It’salwayslike that with him,” he snaps, then shoves a hand against the stone beside my head as if he needs something solid to keep from breaking apart. “He feels you. Through the Veil. Through your magic. You think he won’t keep showing up? He uses it as an opportunity to get closer. I don’t trust him.”
I don’t know what to say. Because he’s right. Kael is drawn to me like a storm to a weak point in the world.
And Raiden feels it.
He exhales shakily, leaning his forehead closer—not touching, but close enough that our breaths mingle. “I’msupposed to be the one protecting you. That’s what the bond is for. But you keep running toward danger like you don’t care if you live through it.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Then tell me you won’t go back in there.”
I hesitate.
And that’s answer enough. He knows I will.
Raiden’s eyes close for a single pained second before they reopen, darker than before. “I can’t lose you,” he says quietly. “Not to the Veil. Not to him.”
He pushes off the wall, stepping back as though the space between us is the only way to keep his control. “Go,” he murmurs. “Before I say something I can’t take back.”
My chest tightens. I’m pretty sure he just said something he can’t take back. “Raiden?—”
“Please,” he adds, voice rough, refusing to look at me. “Not right now.”
TWENTY
LINDSAY
The next morning,Professor Marris lifts her hand, fingers weaving through the air like a conductor. Glowing gold threads of magic trail behind her, shaping an intricate rune midair. The symbol pulses, then etches itself into the invisible board floating in front of the class.
“Now,” she says crisply, “this is a containment glyph. Ancient, powerful, and—when done properly—strong enough to hold most Veil creatures for at least sixty seconds. Any longer and you’re playing roulette with your soul.”
The containment glyph glows like molten gold, its lines sharp and humming with restrained force. The outer ring is a perfect circle—unbroken, precise—encasing layers of angular runes and curved sigils that twist inward like a lock coiling into itself. Smaller symbols orbit the central core, flickering with a pulse that almost mimics a heartbeat. At the center, a diamond-shaped knot pulses with light, shifting subtly as if the glyph is breathing. The magic around it vibrates, not violently, but with a tight pressure—like a storm sealed in a jar, waiting for the glass to crack.
She spins on her heel, robes fluttering, and gestures at our desks. “I’ll be testing your replications. Precision matters.”
The room hums with quiet concentration as students begin channeling magic through their quills and spell mediums. I try to focus, but the mark on my forearm itches. Not like a rash, but like a storm pressing against the edge of my skin. It’s been that way since last night. Even being around Raiden during Combat Casting hadn’t lessened it, not that he was very interactive today.
