They started in the crooked tree courtyard.
“I thought we weren’t supposed to play with fire near wood,” Rowan said as Caelan led her down into the small enclosed space.
The air here felt different.
Quieter.
Less…watched.
The crooked tree loomed, branches bare now. Its leaves lay in drifts on the ground. Someone had etched faint sigils into its bark—Aisling’s work, likely.
“We’re not,” Caelan said. “In most places. Here is…an exception.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Because this tree,” he said, resting a hand on the twisted trunk, “likes you.”
She snorted. “You say that like it’s a dog.”
“In some ways,” he said. “It’s better.”
He turned, facing her.
“Hands,” he said. “Show me.”
She lifted her palms.
The faint sigil Zia had carved was still there, ghostlike.
He stepped closer.
“Close your eyes,” he said.
“Every time you say that, something terrible happens,” she muttered.
He smiled faintly. “This time, I promise not to drop a prophecy on your head,” he said. “Just…trust me for…ten seconds.”
She huffed.
Closed her eyes.
“Breathe,” he said. “In. Out. In. Out.”
She obeyed.
The sounds of the Palace faded.
All she heard was her own breath. The faint rustle of dry leaves. The creak of the crooked tree in a breeze she couldn’t feel.
“Find it,” Caelan said softly.
“Find…what?” she asked.
“The hum,” he said. “The buzz. The…tingle you told Lucien about. The thing that sparks when you’re angry or scared.”
She swallowed.
Turned her attention inward.
At first, all she felt was her pounding heart. The tightness in her chest. The ache in her muscles.
Then.
There.
Under it all.
A low, steady thrum.
Like the feeling at the lake.
Like when the seam had grabbed her.
Except…inside.
Hers.
“I feel it,” she whispered.
“Good,” he said. “Now…touch it.”
“How?” she asked.
“How do you touch a thought?” he asked. “You…look. You lean. You…intend.”
She frowned.
Reached.
It was like trying to grab smoke.
Her mind slid off it.
Frustration flared.
The hum spiked.
“Careful,” Caelan murmured.
“I am careful,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Liar,” he said, fond. “Try again. Gently. Less iron. More…water.”
“Stop talking like a fortune cookie,” she muttered.
He chuckled.
She tried again.
This time, she didn’t lunge.
She…brushed.
Like touching the surface of a pool with the very tips of her fingers.
Warmth shot up her arms.
She gasped.
“Open your eyes,” he said.
She did.
Light flickered between her palms.
Not full fire.
Not even stable.
Just…glimmers.
Sparks dancing across her skin, hopping from finger to finger.
She stared.
“Don’t drop it,” he said quietly.
“How,” she asked, voice shaky.
“Breathe,” he said. “And…ask. Where do you want it?”
She thought of Lucien’s blackened blade.
The singed dummy.
The way the magic had jumped to whatever was moving, ungrounded.
She looked at the crooked tree.
“No,” Caelan said sharply, reading the line of her gaze. “Not there. Not yet. Start…smaller.”
She glared at him. “It’s your tree.”
“It’s my mother’s,” he said. “I’d rather not set her shrine on fire just yet.”
Fair.
She looked down.
At a fallen leaf near her boot.
She extended a hand.
The sparks followed, jumping from her palm to her fingertips.
She let one fall.
It kissed the leaf.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then the leaf glowed.
Not orange-red, like fire.
A deep, molten gold.
It didn’t burn.
It…shimmered.
The veins lit up like tiny rivers.
Rowan’s breath caught.
“That,” Caelan said softly, “is new.”
“What…is it?” she whispered.
He crouched, examining the leaf.
“It’s not…destruction,” he said slowly. “It’s…revelation. Illumination.”
“Words,” she said weakly.
He smiled. “You…light things up,” he said. “Literally.”
“That is so cheesy,” she said.
He laughed.
He straightened.
“Again,” he said.
She practiced until her arms shook.
Lighting leaves.
A small rock.
Once, accidentally, her own boot.
(It didn’t catch. It just…glowed for a second, then went back to normal. Her toe tingled for an hour.)
“You’re not…burning,” he observed. “You’re…exposing.”
“Exposing what?” she asked.
“Essence,” he said. “Truth. The thing under the surface. I’d bet if we took you to Maerlyn’s scrolls and you touched one, you’d see the original words, under all the edits.”
“That sounds…very dangerous,” she said.
“It is,” he said. “Which is why we’re starting with leaves.”
She sat on the ground, panting.
Sweat dampened her back.
Her magic hummed, but more…contained now. Less like a wild animal banging on the bars, more like a big cat pacing.
“This is…a lot,” she said.
“I know,” he said.
He sat across from her, cross-legged.
For a moment, they just…breathed.
“You’re good at this,” she said.
“Teaching?” he asked.
“Making me…less terrified of my own hands,” she said.
His mouth curved. “I’ve had practice,” he said. “With my own.”
“What is…your magic?” she asked. “Specifically.”
He was quiet for a long beat.
Then, “It’s…binding,” he said. “Structure. I…tie things together. People. Oaths. Concepts. It’s why my father likes me for contracts. I can…weave them.”
“Of course,” she said. “You’re the guy with the rope.”
He snorted. “In a sense,” he said.
“Doesn’t that…conflict?” she asked. “With this. With me.” She held up her hands. “If I’m…exposing. Unraveling.”
“Not necessarily,” he said. “A binding is only as good as the truth it rests on. Lies rot. You…find the rot. I…tie the rest tighter.”
She blinked. “We…compliment each other,” she said slowly.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “We do.”
Heat crawled up her neck.
“Very convenient,” she muttered.
“Annoyingly so,” he agreed.
A crow cawed overhead.
Ash swooped down, landing on the crooked tree.
“What about Aisling?” Rowan asked, staring at the sparks still flickering faintly on her fingertips. “What…does she do?”
He grimaced. “Disruption,” he said. “Emotion. She…twists. Makes people feel things they shouldn’t. Heightens. Throws matches on oil. Useful in battle. Less so in dinner parties.”
Rowan thought of last night’s dance.
“Sounds…familiar,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “You’re…adjacent. You show people what’s already there. She amplifies and warps. Different flavors. Both…dangerous.”
“And together?” she asked softly.
He looked at her sharply.
“Together,” he said slowly, “you could…break a lot of things.”
“Good,” she said.
He smiled, crooked and fierce.
“I’m supposed to be the one corrupting you,” he said. “You’re skipping ahead.”
“You just told me my superpower is revealing truth,” she said. “I’m not going to use that to organize your filing system.”
He laughed.
The sound warmed something under her ribs.
His gaze dropped to her mouth.
Her breath hitched.
He caught himself.
Looked away.
“We should…stop,” he said. “For now. Before you exhaust yourself to the point where you can’t feel when the magic bites.”
“What does that feel like?” she asked.
“Like burning your hand on iron,” he said. “Except…inside.”
“Fun,” she said.
He stood and offered her a hand.
She took it.
He pulled her up easily.
She stumbled.
He stepped closer.
For a second, they were chest to chest.
Her heart hammered.
His pupils blew wide.
“Careful,” he murmured.
“You’re the one looming,” she said, breathless.
His lips twitched.
He didn’t move.
Neither did she.
The air between them crackled.
Not with magic.
With something else.
Something she refused to name.
“Caelan,” she whispered.
He swallowed.
“Yes,” he said.
“Do you…regret it?” she asked. “Binding yourself to me. In front of them.”
“No,” he said immediately.
“Even if it kills you,” she pressed.
He held her gaze. “If I die because I chose to stand with you against them,” he said quietly, “it will be the best decision I ever made.”
Tears pricked her eyes.
“Stop,” she said hoarsely. “Saying…things like that.”
“Why?” he asked softly.
“Because it makes me want to choose you back,” she blurted.
Silence.
Thick.
Heavy.
Electric.
“You…should,” he said finally.
Her breath stuttered.
“Not like that,” he added quickly. “Not in the way you’re thinking. Not…romantically. Not…yet.” His mouth twisted. “You should choose me as an *ally.* As someone whose oaths you can hold. As someone who will bleed where you point.”
Her shoulders eased a fraction.
“Okay,” she whispered. “That I can…consider.”
“Good,” he said.
They stepped back.
The tension thinned.
Not gone.
Never gone.
“Rest,” he said. “We have another feast tonight. Smaller. Worse.”
“Smaller *and* worse?” she asked. “How is that possible?”
“High Council,” he said. “Less food. More politics. They’ll pick at you. At me. At the deal.”
“I’m tired of being picked at,” she said.
“Then bite,” he said.
She smiled slowly.
“I plan to,” she said.
He grinned.
“Good,” he said. “I’d hate for them to think you were tame.”
As she walked back to her rooms later, hands still faintly warm from the sparks, Rowan realized something unsettling.
For the first time since Gran’s confession, since the prophecy, since Caelan had stepped out of her dreams, her fear was no longer the only loud thing in her head.
Power hummed now too.
Not comfortable.
Not safe.
But hers.
She intended to make very good use of it.
For bargains.
For breaking.
And maybe, one day, for burning.
Not the way they feared.
Her way.
Whatever that turned out to be.