Page 72 of Between Smoke and Shadow

He drops to his knees, letting his head hang.

“That was my last idea,” he says, voice bitter. “I think we’re fucked, Rune.”

I swallow. Rather than respond, I stare down at the magic. It looks the same as it always has in its raw form: transparent and wispy, more like fog than anything tangible. I’ve been burned by it enough times to know not to touch it, especially not in its raw element. Vale touching the black bottle was stupid enough.

And yet, my fingers tingle. That impulse to stretch my fingers takes over, and I step forward without meaning to.

“Get in the lift,” I say. I don’t look at Vale—my eyes are locked on the magic. “I want to try something, but you need to be ready.”

“Try what?” he demands. He dips into my view, blocking the loose magic. “Burning your hand like I just did? Breaking another bottle?”

“I’m not going to grab a bottle,” I say, finally looking at him. “I’m going to grab the magic.”

“Are you crazy?” he asks. I don’t realize he’s gotten up until he’s suddenly at my side. “Don’t?—

“Just…trust me,” I say. “If it doesn’t work, then it doesn’t work. Like you said, you’re out of ideas, and we’re going to die if we can’t get out of here. I want to try.”

Vale purses his lips, studying me. Finally, he shrugs and waves a hand toward the loose magic, as if officially giving his blessing. I resist rolling my eyes. Once he’s back in the lift, I move for the swirling magic.

I don’t let myself overthink it. I bend and stretch my fingers, channeling whatever magic I hope Harrick has left within me. Surging forward, I sweep my hands toward the mist. They go right through it. I frown and try again. My fingers touch nothing but air.

I’ve never tried to grab magic in its raw form, but I know that should have hurt. It should have burned my fingers, blistered my skin like Vale’s is now. I might not have claimed the magic like I hoped, like it was my own, but it didn’t hurt me either.

Stepping away from the fog of magic, I grab a black bottle from the nearest shelf. I’m careful, barely lifting it in case it burns me. The glass is as cold as the air down here, and shock bursts through me.

I was right.

Maybe not completely. I can’t claim this magic as my own, but I am suddenly sure that it recognizes Harrick in my bones. It knows I am not a god myself, but it must sense I’m not fully mortal either.

I grasp the bottle and don’t allow myself to overthink it. I run for the lift, legs pounding, as if the bottle might suddenly burn me as it should. It doesn’t.

“How is that possible?” Vale asks, his jaw dropping.

Without answering, I crash against the back wall. My heart pounds, hard enough I can feel it everywhere and not just against my ribs. I tilt the bottle toward the control panel, not fully sure if this is how it works. Vale slinks against the far wall, and once the gray buttons flash red with magic, I type 846538.

Vale hollers as the lift surges upward, and I grin back at him. For the first time, freedom feels like more than just a lie I tell myself.

TWENTY-FOUR

HARRICK

I sit on the edge of Rune Ealde’s bed, a well-worn text opened on the spot beside me. It’s an updated version ofIllia’s Tome,Savoa’s most in-depth literature on our history, traditions, and laws. It starts with the Architect’s origin story—half of which is clearly a lie—and continues with enough propaganda to make my head hurt. Still, there’s useful information in here too. Maps, transcriptions, and sector guidelines. Right now, I’m reading and rereading the chapter, “Descendant Law”.

In the days since I’ve returned to the Tower, I’ve been obsessively studying anything on descendant marriage and kinship. I read it again now, leaned against the off-yellow wall of Rune’s quarters. Her room is as hideous as mine, made worse by its tiny size.

Nothing about this place indicates it belongs to Rune. It could be any servant’s quarters, reeking of sharp disinfectant and misery. The blankets are stiff, like they’re made of paper, and there’s nothing on the wall except a single hook.

There’s not even a nightstand, dresser, or lamp.

I’ve no more than thought the wordlampwhen the light disappears from the ceiling. It’s followed by a buzz in the corridor, signaling it’s officially midnight. I forgot their lightsturn off like this, throwing them into complete blackness. Fumbling with the ancient book, I tuck it beneath the bed so I don’t step on it when I get up.

Where is she?

I light a spark of magic on my fingers, casting an eerie glow around me. My stomach twists the longer I sit here. She’d insisted on remaining in her own quarters, at least until my broken betrothal mess quieted down. I’d agreed, but now I feel like a fool. I have no idea where she is, if something has happened to her. She’s obviously not with Viana, and I’ve ensured she hasn’t been assigned any new duties in the meantime.

She should be here. There’s nowhere else shecouldbe at this hour.

I pull the magic back into my bones before rising. Something iswrong. I move through the darkness of her room and stride into the corridor. My anxiety spikes as I walk the silent hall. I shouldn’t have waited so long to look for her. I should have sensed an hour ago that something was keeping her. Orsomeone. I imagine her standing against a wall again, her face bloodied and maskless.

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