Lucy closed her eyes, thought of the daggers, and felt a vibration ignite in her chest. A second later, the blades reappeared, humming with life.
Sam reached out cautiously, her fingertips brushed gently over one. She jerked her hand back instantly, shaking it out. “That’s definitely not steel,” she muttered. “That’s not like anything I’ve ever handled.”
Barnaby’s grin widened like a child at Christmas. “So, you can only make daggers? Or can you… you know…” His eyes sparkled with curiosity. “Go Bigger?”
Lucy frowned. She had not even considered it. Slowly, she focused again. She pictured something else, something stronger.
The energy surged. Her palms burned. Light flared.
And this time, a sword materialized.
Long, sleek, gleaming with the same strange silver light. She tried to drop it, but the hilt clung to her palm, fused as it had grown from her own flesh.
Lucy’s breath caught. “It’s really… stuck to me.”
Barnaby stared at the weapon. “It is the ability to shape weapons from your very essence. A gift of creation.” Lucy’s chest swelled with pride. If she could forge these weapons, what else was locked inside her waiting to be released and for the first time, the thought did not scare her.
It thrilled her.
Chapter 5
Training had become a rhythm, like the steady beating of a drum. Sam tested her reflexes with ruthless precision, Byron drilled her on control and endurance, Corey sparred with her until both were bruised and breathless, and even Damien pushed her patience with his relentless logic during strategy exercises. Barnaby, of course, hovered with notebooks and recording devices, desperate to document every flicker of light in her eyes.
But when training was done, when sweat had dried and the others collapsed into chairs or drifted to their own corners of the house, it was Mary who always found Lucy.
They walked the estate grounds together, slow steps crunching over gravel paths or sinking into the soft grass of the gardens. Mary never hurried, and somehow, her unshakable calm bled into Lucy, grounding her in a way nothing else did.
“You hold yourself too tightly,” Mary murmured as they strolled beneath the branches of an old oak. “Power does not like cages. It slips out in ugly ways when you try to bottle it up.”
Lucy glanced at her, curiously. “And you would know that how?”
Mary smiled. “Because I have seen it, repeatedly. In others and in myself.”
That answer only made Lucy want to ask more, but when she pressed, Mary would always deflect and today was no different.
“Tell me about your life before all this,” Lucy asked quietly as they reached a bench that overlooked the orchard. “Who you were, where you came from. I have been with you for so long, but I’ve never… I have never really asked.”
Mary lowered herself gracefully onto the bench, folding her arms in her lap. For a moment, something flickered in her eyes, something old, heavy, and dangerous.
“One day,” she said, her voice even but final. “One day I will be happy to tell you. But not now.”
Lucy sank beside her, a little disappointed but not surprised. With Mary, timing was everything, why should this be any different.
They sat in silence, listening to the rustle of leaves. It should have been peaceful. It was.
Lucy’s chest tightened. Her spine went rigid, as though invisible strings were tugging her upright.
Mary noticed instantly. “What is it?”
Lucy’s gaze snapped toward the house, eyes narrowing. She rose to her feet without answering and in a blink, she shimmered. Her body flickered across the grounds like light refracted through glass until she stood at the front steps, staring out toward the long drive.
Byron was the first to react, bursting from the doorway with urgency written all over his face. “Lucy!” He caught her by the arm, scanning her pale expression. “What’s wrong?”
“Someone is coming,” she whispered.
“Who?”
She shook her head, her voice growing more certain even as her stomach twisted. “Someone. No, more than one. I can feel them.”
