But of course, the moment doesn’t last. The shadows settle. Her smile fades.
And reality crashes in like it always does.
Iain crosses his arms and stares out of the grimy kitchen window, grief festering under his skin like a slow-moving disease.
It’s clear he’s lost someone who was tied to him by one of these threads.
Because he’s not just damaged. He’s broken.
And these threads? I’ve heard of them before. I thought it was horseshit. Just poetic nonsense, some fairytale to explain what we already know: that some people leave a mark you can’t erase.
This explains everything. The pull in my chest. The ache when Aurora’s gone. The way she feels like the only thing that matters, even when I want to peel the stars from the sky and let everything burn.
Whatever it is between us is unmaking me. The old me—the one who never needed, never stayed—is slipping away. I can feel it. I’m not the same.
And maybe … I don’t want to be.
Aurora’s gaze sharpens, then turns back to Iain.
“So, wait. My mother … she was a Daughter too?”
“Aye, love.”
“But she never had a hellhound. How can that be if they assign all Daughters one at birth?”
Aurora’s gaze never leaves the wrakh as her fingers idly trace the cracks in the old table.
“Ah, now there’s the question,” Iain says, an odd hint of pride in his voice. “Your mum would have known about our kairda … er, what the fuck do you humans call it? Ah … coven! She’s the one who had them put those spells on you and your hellhound.
“My guess? She had a wrakh do a thread-breaking ritual too, releasing her hellhound from her service. Most Daughters cut the thread to their hellhound in their teens. Never thought it was a good idea, but what the fuck do I know? She couldn’t do that to you and yours ‘cause it’s your thread to break. If you ever want to.”
Aurora draws in a breath. Holds it. Then lets it out slowly, the tremor in her exhale louder than any scream.
“First of all, fuck you. I’d only break my thread with Lou if she wants me to. And second: What, fate just assigned me a protector? A partner? Like I’m some goddamn puppet? That’s bullshit. What’s the point of all this power if I don’t even get to decide who I love?”
The hellfire burns through her dark green irises, bright enough to catch the overhead light.
Iain’s eyes go wide and his jaw drops.
For the briefest second, he glances at me, concern flickering behind the awe. But whatever he sees in Aurora keeps pullinghim deeper, quieting his sharp tongue as if a spell already tangled its fingers through him, whispering his name where bone splits and grey matter listens.
“Christ, little blackbird. Aren’t you a lovely, violent sight?” Iain sighs, almost dreamily.
He’s falling under her spell, and she’s not even trying.
Shit, there’s the kettle corn smell again. Her magic is literally clawing its way out of her.
Maybe this is how her magic rises, something soft and sweet, even when the world around her burns.
It doesn’t lash. It doesn’t scream. It blooms.
But even pretty blooms can take down buildings when they push through concrete and rebar.
And I think that’s exactly what Aurora’s doing. She’s breaking through. Not gently or safely, but with wild abandon and fire where her fear used to be.
Fuck, she’s beautiful like this.
I gently trace my fingertips along Aurora’s arm, hoping the warmth of my touch will soothe her and shatter the spell.
