“It will work,”Sir replies without hesitation.“The ring is a mere conduit. You’re a Thorne, Keisha. The magic is there. It’s always been there.”
I roll my eyes, but I close them anyway, my eyelids fluttering shut as I try to find that quiet space inside myself that meditation is supposed to unlock.
“Slow your breathing,”Sir instructs, his voice taking on a different quality, more formal, like he’s channeling something ancient and purposeful.
In through my nose, slow and steady, counting to four. Hold for four. Out through my mouth, controlled and deliberate, another count of four. The rhythm is familiar now from all the meditation sessions with Lucien.
I do this again, and again, repeating the cycle until I’m hovering in that strange in-between space. I’m here, acutely aware of my surroundings, the rug beneath me, the late afternoon warmth streaming through the windows, Sir in front of me, but also somehow beyond it all.
The house is quiet around me as I let the rhythm take over, the tension in my shoulders easing inch by inch. The faint hum that always lives within the manor begins to surface, subtle at first, like something just out of reach.
“Good,”Sir murmurs, his voice seeming to come from both right beside me and somewhere far away. “Now feel. Don’t think, don’t analyze, don’t try to understand. Just feel.”
I let my awareness drift, not outward toward the town and its complications, not yet, but inward, sinking into the quiet space beneath my thoughts where something has been waiting patiently for me to notice it. The manor responds almost immediately, as if it’s been holding its breath for this moment, waiting for me to finally pay attention.
Then I feel it.
The discovery hits me like a revelation, like finding a light switch in a room I’d been stumbling through in darkness. A soft sense of recognition washes over me, surprise and satisfaction blending together as I find the thread of brilliant white magic.It runs horizontal and vertical through the entire manor, warm and solid, these luminous lines of energy woven through the very bones of the house like a circulatory system designed by someone who understood that magic and architecture could be the same thing.
They stretch along the walls, beneath the floors I walk on every day, through the support beams and foundation stones, through the structure itself like veins carrying something ancient and alive and absolutely fundamental. The magic isn’t loud or overwhelming. Instead, it’s constant, dependable, like a heartbeat that never falters, like breath that never stops.
My own breath catches and I want to laugh at the discovery, want to throw my head back and cackle with the pure joy of finally, finally finding what’s been right here all along. My excitement bubbles up and comes out as a sharp gasp, but I keep my eyes squeezed shut for fear of losing these precious gains. “I can feel it,” I whisper, my voice filled with wonder.
“Of course you can. This is yours, Keisha,”Sir replies, and there’s something like pride in his voice, warm and satisfied.“This house has been waiting for you for decades. Don’t stop there. Go deeper. Find what lies beyond these walls.”
Taking another deep breath, my renewed energy surging through me like caffeine in my bloodstream, I follow the threads, letting them guide me, letting them pull me beyond the safety of the manor and into something wider, something that makes my heart race with possibility.
The change is immediate and breathtaking. The warmth expands, stretching outward like wings unfolding until the house is no longer the center of my awareness but just the beginning. The magic branches into the land itself, threading through the soil rich with centuries of power, curling beneath the cobblestone streets I’ve walked, weaving through RubySprings in a vast network that feels impossibly complex and beautiful.
Roots, so many roots spreading out like a vast underground forest, fed by the Spring itself with its iron-rich water carrying enchantment to every corner of town. The magic moves in and around everything in every direction, flowing like an underground river system, tethering it all together in ways I never imagined possible. It’s like seeing the map of some incredible transit system, lights moving rapidly through tunnels and pathways, an interconnected web of different colors and energies and so much life that it takes my breath away.
Pure joy at what I’ve found makes my heart beat fast enough that I can hear it in my ears, makes my stomach churn with nerves and excitement as I follow the threads further and further, pushing my awareness outward until something new begins to surface from the magical landscape.
Each thread pulses with its own distinct rhythm, its own energy signature, separate and unique yet connected to the greater whole like instruments in an orchestra. I feel them without seeing them, individual signatures that hum with life and personality and power.
People. The supernatural beings who call this town home, each one a beacon in the magical network. Wolves with their wild, primal energy that feels like moonlight and forest shadows. Witches and Wizards with their structured, intentional power that tastes like herbs and candlewax and ancient words. Vampires with their cold, controlled strength that moves like silk over steel. Finally, my lone Fae lover, his magic different from all the rest, older, wilder, touched with something that belongs to neither this world nor any other.
My breath stutters as realization dawns, the magnitude of it hitting me like a physical blow. After all this time, after years of feeling broken and defective, being allowed to hold ontosomething so precious, so fundamental, seems like far too much. I don’t deserve this privilege, this incredible gift of awareness. I’m just me. The failed Witch everyone already decided I was.
I can feel them all.
The town isn’t just a place where supernatural beings happen to live. It’s alive with the magic of everyone who calls it home, each person a vital thread woven into something far greater than themselves, something that transforms the simple act of existing here into something sacred.
“Sir—” I gasp, overwhelmed by the scope of what I’m experiencing.
“That’s it,”Sir says, his voice vibrating with excitement.“Perfect. Now find the wards. Find what’s been broken.”
I reach further, pushing past the individual lights of the townspeople, searching for something stronger and more fundamental, something that binds all of this together and keeps it safe from the outside world.
For a moment, there’s nothing. A black void where something should be, a barrier holding me back with the force of a brick wall. The feeling cements me in place, like trying to swim through concrete.
Then, faintly, like a candle flickering in a hurricane, something flickers at the very edge of my awareness.
It’s not steady like the manor’s magic.
It’s not warm like the people’s individual energies.
It feels. . .strained. Fragmented like something that’s been stretched too thin for too long, like a rope that’s been bearing more weight than it was designed to carry.
