Page 75 of The Witch They Fear

I slow down at the crosspoints. Layer the chalk. The rune takes shape—angular, precise, a dark mirror of the violence carved into the other side.

Done.

I step back. The counter-rune sits on the inside of my door, dark chalk on pale wood, humming in quiet opposition to the anchor only inches away through the grain.

"The candle," Aamon says.

I pick it up from the counter. I hold it close to the counter-rune. Light it with a match from the kitchen drawer. The flame catches—small, orange, ordinary. The bone-colored wax starts to soften at the edges.

"Now." Aamon's voice is closer. He's moved—not touching me, not crowding, but near enough that I can feel his cold at my back. "Hold your palm over the flame. Find the channel. Push down—through the fire, into the chalk."

I hold my hand over the candle. The flame licks at the air two inches below my palm. The heat is real—pressing against my skin, not painful yet but promising pain if I get this wrong.

I reach for my magic. The warmth behind my sternum. The sun that lives there.

Down. Through my arm. Through my palm. Into the flame.

The fire jumps. Flares bright. My magic hits the flame and the heat doubles—my palm stings and I flinch, yanking my hand back.

"Shit."

"Steady." Aamon's voice is behind me. Close. "You flinched before the flame did. Your body anticipated pain that hadn't arrived yet. Trust the candle."

"Easy for you to say. You’re just an observer."

“Focus.”

I exhale, reset. Try again.

The magic threads through my palm—slower this time, more careful. The flame shifts from orange to gold and for a second I think I have it—

It spikes. The heat surges and the flame shoots up six inches and licks my skin. I yank back with a hiss, shaking my fingers. A thin red line across my palm, stinging.

"Shit—"

"You're pushing. Stop pushing." He's moved closer—I can feel his cold at my back, a counterweight to the heat in front of me. "The flame isn't an opponent. You don't need to overpower it."

"That's literally all I know how to do."

"I know." His voice softens by a fraction. "That's what we're changing."

I shake my hand out. Blow on the red line until it stops stinging. Third try.

I hold my palm over the flame. Close my eyes. Push down—

The magic surges too fast. The flame roars up and the chalk lines on the door crack—a sharp splintering sound, one of the intersections fracturing from the heat. The ward stutters. The hum goes discordant.

"Stop." Aamon's hand closes over my wrist—cold, firm, pulling my hand away from the flame before I can do more damage. His grip is clinical but my pulse hammers against his fingers anyway. "The intersection cracked. You need to repair it before you try again."

I stare at the counter-rune. A hairline fracture runs through the upper left crosspoint, the chalk line split where the power hit too hard.

"I'll have to redraw it."

"Just the intersection. Carefully."

I pick up the chalk. My hand is shaking. I can feel his eyes on my back—those steady hazel eyes that have watched me fail at everything I've tried since I got here and somehow keep expecting me to succeed. I repair the line. Slow. Precise. The chalk fills the crack and the hum restabilizes.

"Okay." I set the chalk down. Flex my burned palm. "Again."