Lander and I rise in silence.
She prods Samuel, scowling when he fails to stir—then freezes as Lander presses his paper gun to her temple.
“Good morning, Meredith,” he says calmly. “Fancy meeting you here.”
She stiffens. “Councillor Kane? What are you doing?”
“I’m here because you’ve been very naughty. You broke the treaty,” he replies, his voice mild yet lethal. “Illegal spells. Soul magic, no less.”
Her face drains of colour.
“This circle,” he adds, nodding to the glowing sigil on the floor, “is not merely frowned upon; it is forbidden—and extraordinarily dangerous.”
As Lander distracts her, I move towards the bedroom. I stand in the doorway and, from my backpack, pull an extra-special short-range charge spell. Small radius, just enough for what I need, and it should not be recognised by Meredith’s ward.
The weight sits on the dressing table, gleaming like a threat.
I toss the spell through the ward.
It lands true. The spell vial shatters, and the chargeflares in a sharp blast. A chunk of the dressing table vanishes; the paperweight is obliterated. Magic seeps into the floor like blood into soil.
The dressing table and wall bear scorch marks; a few of Knox’s shirts are singed, but nothing permanent.
I breathe—deeply—for the first time in hours. The pressure in my skull eases, the headache lifts, and the nausea fades.
I pull a small, silvery blue bottle from my pack and drink the recharge tonic; citrus, salt, and a sharp herbal note hit my tongue. I offer one to Lander, but he shakes his head. This mission has been a walk in the park for the Magic Hunter. He is still buzzing with magic.
Goodness. That is better.
When I turn back, Meredith is glaring. Lander has already slipped an anti-magic cuff over her wrist and is tying her hands behind her back. Her face is crimson, eyes wild. While he secures her, I crouch beside Samuel, roll him onto his side and bind his wrists.
That done, I study the circle.
What a mess.
All it lacks are candles.
A memory overlays the present—sharp and unwelcome. Another circle. A half-built house: bare floors, cold wind slipping through glassless windows, making the candles flicker and spit. The recollection strikes like a punch; for a moment I cannot breathe, my stomach lurches.
Now, Harper. This is now. You are safe.
I shake it off and focus on the circle before me.
Their lines are clumsy, the sigils messy—clearly copiedfrom an early draft, not the master version I destroyed. I send out filaments and taste the spell; it has already been charged, but poorly.
Even before I twisted that original spell,hiswork was cleaner than this.
“This is dreadful,” I mutter.
The circle throbs at the edge of my vision, lines of chalk, salt, and blood straining against the floor. One wrong stroke and the whole thing could buckle, implode, and take half the compound with it.
For years, I have dismantled this magic in my head, rehearsing every possible failure.
I draw a stub of enchanted chalk from my pocket and kneel beside one of the sigils.
“What are you doing, you stupid girl?” Meredith snarls—then falls silent, surely prodded by Lander’s gun barrel.
Steadying my hand, I retrace the missing lines, matching every curve and angle, restoring the broken symmetry. A metallic taste floods my mouth; if I misjudge so much as a fraction…
