The timing had kept me awake three nights running. My parents hadn’t started this research months ago, when Marigold first arrived at Wickem. They’d started it the week after we cleansed the wellspring. The week the master watched four heirs in magical harmony undo decades of his work in a single night.
He wasn’t researching us out of curiosity. He was researching us because we’d scared him. Because he had seventeen wellsprings in that network, and if we could do to one what we did to Wickem’s, we could do it to all of them, and he knew it before we did.
Yes, I said. And specifically…
Yes. And specifically… I swallowed hard. Why your necromancy seems to counter the corruption. They’re working directly with the master, which means whatever they learn, he learns.
The words came out flat and clinical, like I was reporting on strangers rather than the people who’d raised me. Maybe that’s what they were now, strangers who happened to share my blood, my pale blond hair, and my talent for deception.
Marigold took the reports, her honey-blonde hair falling forward as she read. I forced myself to stay quiet and let her process without filling the silence with charm or deflection.
If they figure out how my magic works against his corruption, she said finally, they’ll find ways to counter it.
Most likely. I swallowed hard. I don’t know why the master wants you specifically—just that he does. Corrupting Raven to attack you, now researching necromancy’s interaction with wellsprings… You’re important to whatever he’s planning. Important enough that my parents are digging through centuries of magical archives to understand why.
She looked up then, and I braced for anger or fear or accusation.
Instead, her shoulders relaxed slightly. Relief.
Thank you, she said quietly. For telling me right away. For not trying to protect me from it.
Something tight in my chest eased. I wanted you to see it immediately.
Her hand found mine, a small gesture that meant everything. Trust rebuilding, one honest moment at a time.
This was what love looked like, I realized. Not grand gestures or perfect performances. Just showing up with the truth, even when the truth was ugly.
An hour later, all four of us gathered in the common room Keane had commandeered as our makeshift war room. Cyrus leaned against the hearth, his arms crossed and posture deceptively relaxed but eyes sharp on the rest of us. Marigold sat at the table beside me, her fingers still curled around a mug gone cold, while Keane paced just behind her, scanning the intel like he was memorizing every word.
I squared my shoulders. Echo’s scales shifted to burnished bronze.
Then I laid it out: my parents’ research, cross-referenced with intel from Keane’s surveillance, Parker’s vampire contacts, and the emergency council’s reports.
The master doesn’t corrupt randomly, I said, pointing to the patterns. Raven wasn’t targeted for her ambition or politics. She was close to Marigold, magically compatible, and emotionally vulnerable. You were busy with heir drama and council conspiracies. She was alone.
Bait, Keane said quietly.
Yes. A delivery system. An emotional weapon. I pulled more profiles. And she’s not the only one. My parents identified witches with the same pattern—isolated, sensitive, close to someone the master wants.
I should have noticed, Marigold said quietly, staring at the data. She was pulling away and I was too busy with… She gestured vaguely at the three of us. Everything else.
That’s what made her vulnerable, I said, keeping it professional. He targets witches who are emotionally isolated. Then he gives them exactly what they’re missing.
My parents’ research shows he’s been doing this for decades, offering lonely witches connection, purpose, and a sense of mattering.
I pointed to examples. A widow pushed out of her coven. A dismissed researcher. A student whose friends moved on.
Once they’re corrupted, I added, he turns them into weapons. Not because their targets are powerful but because the emotional leverage works.
Cyrus had been silent, leaning against the wall near Marigold but not quite beside her. Watching. Listening.
So how do we stop him from corrupting more people? Cyrus asked finally.
We can’t prevent isolation, I said. People lose friends, get busy, drift apart. That’s human. But we can watch for the signs—sudden behavioral changes, magical signature shifts, social withdrawal combined with newfound confidence.
And we protect the people around Marigold, Keane added quietly. Lucas—once he’s recovered. Aurora. Other students she’s close to.
Aurora’s with family right now, Cyrus said. Safer there than on campus where the master’s already struck.
