He licked his lips before glancing up at me, his gaze roaming over me like he could see something I couldn’t. The weight of it made my pulse jump, as if he were peeling back layers I didn’t mean to show.
“You don’t use your magic very often. Why?”
The question caught me off guard. My fingers froze on the edge of the page. I lowered my book slowly and turned toward him, studying his expression for any hint of mockery, but there was only quiet curiosity.
“I do use my magic.”
He shook his head as he responded, steady and certain. “No, you hardly use it. I can feel it pulsing around you, but I can also feel that you are suppressing it, and I want to know why.”
His words landed heavily, cutting through the fragile calm between us. I swallowed hard as Abram turned his focus back to the wood in his hands, the steady scrape of his knife against the grain filling the silence. He waited, patient in that infuriating way of his.
“Because of my mother.”
He stopped moving. The knife hovered in midair as his brows pinched together. His gaze snapped to mine, sharp and searching.
“Because of what she did? That doesn’t make sense.”
I looked down at the book in my hands, the words swimming across the page, and thought about not answering him. It wasn’t something I shared, not with anyone. No one ever noticed that I didn’t use my magic much. Sure, I used small spells sometimes,parlor tricks really, but I could do far more. More than anyone should be able to.
“Do you know why my mother picked my father?”
I looked at him again. He shook his head, the faintest crease forming between his brows.
“My father comes from a long line of power. His fae magic is elite; it is unheard of. My mother was determined to have an heir that defied the fate of boring witch magic. So, she cast the spell to change my father’s fate so that he would believe he was fated to her.”
Abram stopped carving and listened to me carefully. His knife was lowered completely now, forgotten in his hand. There was something unreadable in his eyes, interest, maybe, or unease.
“What magic does your father have?”
I glanced away from him and sighed heavily, rubbing a thumb against the spine of my book to keep my hands from trembling. The air between us seemed thicker now.
“My mother’s magic gives me the power to play with death, in a sense. I can bring things back to life, but not fully. I can kill things with a touch. My mother could change fate, in seemingly small ways, but mixed with my father’s ability…”
I looked at him. The words caught on my tongue. Should I really tell the God of Fates this? Would he see me differently if I did?
“My father can see soul threads.”
I looked up at Abram when he stilled completely. His posture changed, alert and guarded.
“He can see the threads of our souls, and when he touches them, he can see big events in their lives.”
Abram exhaled from his nose loudly, like he was trying to process something that unsettled him.
“I have never heard of this magic before.” He seemed confused, even a little wary. “So your coven isn’t messing with fate all of the time, it’syou.”
“Yes.” I looked at him, meeting his gaze fully now, letting him see the truth I’d spent years hiding. “I don’t change it often, just when I see terrible things happening to someone.”
He looked at me like he had never seen me before, like he was reassessing everything he thought he knew. Abram set the wood down on the table, the soft thud sounding louder than it should have, and turned to face me.
“Changing fate has consequences.”
“I know,” I sighed, the words barely a whisper. And gods, I did.
“Elowyn, you have the same magic I do.” His voice was uncertain.
My heart thudded hard against my ribs. The air between us seemed to hum with something ancient and familiar.
“I’m not as powerful as you; you’re a god,” I scoffed, forcing the words out like a shield. “Besides, I think the only thing my mother loved about me was that I had all the magic she hoped I would get. So, to spite her, I don’t use it. And I locked Nyxthra away.”
