Page 13 of The Witch They Fear

Balcour is at the table, portfolio open, pen ready. He doesn't look up.

"Miss Dellaby." Aamon's voice is low. Measured. "How are you feeling this morning?"

Like I exploded a glass of water and cracked my countertop trying to make it warm. Like the thing in my chest is three sizes too big for my body. Like I'm standing in a warded bunker about to be tested on skills I don't have and the man giving the test can shut me down with his thumb.

"Fine," I say.

Something shifts in his expression. Minute. The corner of his mouth—not a smile, not even close, but a micro-movement that suggests he heard everything I didn't say. Which is impossible. He can't read my mind.

Can he?

His abilities are classified. I don't know what he can do. The realization sits in my stomach like a stone.

I really don’t know anything.

"Let's begin." Balcour flips to a new page in his portfolio. For once, he's addressing me directly—or at least addressing the space slightly above my left ear, which for him is practically eye contact. "Historically, witch competency is measured across three foundational pillars: creation, defense, and emotional regulation. These are the benchmarks the council uses to assess magical stability in all registered witches. Under normal circumstances, formal testing isn't required—most witches demonstrate baseline proficiency through standard coursework."

He pauses. Lets that land. Under normal circumstances. Most witches.

"Your circumstances," he continues, "are not normal. The facility's clinical team recommended these three pillars as particularly suited to your specific... profile. Your magic is emotion-triggered, disproportionately destructive, and has historically bypassed conscious control. These exercises will test whether that pattern has changed."

"And if it hasn't?"

Balcour looks at me. Actually looks at me—grey eyes, flat, the kind of patience that has nothing to do with kindness.

"Then we document that and try again next month."

Monthly. Every month for a year. Twelve rounds of being put in a room and asked to prove I'm not the thing my file says I am.

"The assessments are cumulative," Aamon says. His voice cuts through Balcour's bureaucratic drone like something sharper. "Each month builds on the last. What matters isn't where you start." A pause—deliberate, weighted. "It's the trajectory."

I don't know if that's supposed to be reassuring. Coming from the man with the remote in his pocket, it lands somewhere between encouragement and warning.

"There is no pass or fail threshold today," Aamon adds. "This is a baseline. We need to see where you are before we can build a path forward."

Balcour's pen scratches from across the stone room. The sound says otherwise.

"First exercise. Creation." Aamon opens his hand. In his palm: a seed. Small, dark, unremarkable. He sets it on the stone floor between us. "Grow it."

I stare at the seed.

Okay. Think this through. Growing a seed is kinetic energy—a push of warmth into something dormant, coaxing the potential that's already there into motion. In theory, it's the same type of energy output as warming water. Channel heat, direct it, let the target do the rest.

The glass from this morning flashes through my head. The crack in the counter. The shards.

Don't think about the glass.

I'm thinking about the glass.

"Can I know what this particular seed is supposed to blossom into," I say, "or are we going for the surprise?"

Aamon's expression doesn't change. "Lavender."

Simple. Common. The kind of thing growing in the garden outside my window right now. The garden that flinched from me yesterday. I swallow.

"Miss Dellaby," Balcour says from behind me. "The clock is running."

Right. Okay. Here we go.