Oliver’s signature should be easy for me to follow.
And it is… right until it isn’t.
Crouching near the back of the ballroom, I press my palm against the cold marble floor where his trail leads to one of the service corridors. His signature is relatively fresh here, maybe eighteen hours old. Well, fresh for a family member. It would be long gone for anyone else. Well, anyone other than Kieran, whoruns like a furnace so hot it would burn even a witch, but he’s an anomaly I’ve yet to understand.
Like I have multiple times today, I follow the golden warmth of Oliver’s thermal echo as it winds through the corridor, up a staircase, across the second floor, and up to the Observatory.
The glass dome looms against the night sky, and I press my hand against the outer wall, where Oliver’s signature leads.
Then, at the wall, it stops.
It doesn’t fade. It doesn’t bloom the way a signature does when someone fire travels. It justends,as if Oliver walked into solid stone and ceased to exist.
“That’s not possible,” I mutter, running my fingers along the rough surface.
Either my ability is malfunctioning due to emotional compromise, Oliver’s trail was deliberately erased, or there’s a mechanism in this wall I don’t understand.
But being trapped in a wall—or wherever he is—is better than being dead. Because like Constance said, he’s not dead. He’s missing. And missing people can be found.
I just need more power.
And where can I get more power?
The Crown.
My heart stutters at the idea. Because firstly, the Scorched Circles are off-limits after 10:00 PM. Secondly, the Crown is forbidden. If I get caught up there, I’m expelled. Sent home in disgrace, the Thorne child who couldn’t make it through first semester.
But up there, with the volcanic energy amplifying my abilities...
I might be able to sense Oliver anywhere on the island. I might be able to find a trail I’m missing.
Expulsion versus never finding my brother? There’s no real choice.
It’s 10:32 PM. The Circles closed for the night half an hour ago, which means they should be empty.
So, I start moving, letting my heat sensing ability guide me through the shadows. Two patrolling faculty members are near the main quad, so I loop around the library to avoid them. A cluster of students is lingering by the fountain, so I cut through the back gardens instead. I thread through the cold spots like a needle through fabric, invisible and silent, becoming one with the darkness.
Soon, the Scorched Circles rise before me, seven rings in the volcanic slope. In daylight, they’re intimidating. At night, they’re ancient and watchful, the residual heat from today’s training clinging to the stones in layers of overlapping memories.
I pause and scan for heat signatures—mainly for Jade and Logan’s, since they’ve been sneaking out here for weeks.
Tonight, the Circles are empty.
So, I begin the climb.
Loose volcanic rock shifts under my boots. The wind picks up as I climb higher, whipping my hair loose from its bun and sending the pencils I’d forgotten were in there clattering down the mountainside.
“The Crown,”Kieran said on our first day at Scorched Circles.“Raw magical amplification. No safety features. The only circle where a challenge could end in death. You will never train there. You will never set foot there. Am I understood?”
We all nodded, too terrified to do anything else.
Now I’m climbing toward it. Alone. In the dark.
This is insane. This is absolutely, certifiably insane.
By the time I reach the summit, my legs are burning and my lungs are screaming for air. But the exhaustion vanishes the moment I look out, because the path ends where I’m standing.
Beyond it, the Crown stretches before me—a flat expanse of jagged volcanic rock, maybe forty feet across, its edges droppinginto darkness. There are no carved barriers like the lower circles, and no safety features. It’s just raw stone and a long way down.
