Page 33 of What Blooms from Death

“It isn’t as if we can’t escape them if things go wrong,” I assured him. “Have I evernotmanaged to escape when things went wrong?”

(Your luck will eventually run out.)

I scoffed. “It’s not luck. It’s skill.”

Before he could reply, we were interrupted by the arrival of Zayn. The Lord of the North Reaches stepped into the backyard, his expression brightening as his eyes landed on me.

The more I saw him, the more vividly I recalled our encounter that night at Rose Point. After seven years, my assessment of him remained largely unchanged; it was clear he was related to Aleksander—albeit distantly. Their basic features appeared to have been shaped by similar hands, crafted by artists with a penchant for strong jawlines, high cheekbones, and perfectly refined noses. Yet, they bore the finishing touches of two different masters, each with their own distinct visions of beauty.

Aleksander embodied rugged elegance, quiet strength and perfect poise.

Zayn had a much more approachable look—a youthful charm, almost, even though he was the older between the two, if I recalled my mother’s boring lessons about the Elarithian royal family tree correctly. As he scanned me with his warm gaze, the flecks of gold in his brown eyes seemed to shimmer. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but it sounded as if you were having a conversation…with your dog?”

I carefully considered my reply, searching for the answer that would make me sound the least insane.

In this case, I decided, it was the truth.

“It’s a facet of my magic,” I told him. “I can understand his thoughts, and he can understand my speech.” With a slight, rueful grin, I added, “Although, sometimes he likes to pretend he can’t, so that he can ignore me and my commands.”

Zayn’s eyes widened slightly.

“His name is Phantom.”

Zayn crouched down, tentatively reaching to scratch him beneath the chin.

Phantom’s fur bristled. (Please tell this fool I am not a common house pet for him to coddle and caress.)

I arched a brow. “He likes being scratched between the ears,” I said. “Just above that white spot on his forehead.”

Phantom started to growl in protest, but Zayn was already reaching for the spot I’d mentioned. Phantom’s tail thumped happily in response—though hesitantly, and perhaps against his will.

I gave him a wink, which earned me a flash of teeth.

(You betray me,) he protested, even as his tail wagged more furiously.

So dramatic, this one.

“It’s been some time since he could enjoy a nice petting like this,” I told Zayn. “He wasn’t this solid in the world above.”

The Elarithian lord stood up straight once more, giving me a curious look. “What do you mean?”

“He died three years ago. I kept him alive with magic, but I didn’t quite manage to give him his solid body back; when we arrived here, though, something in the air seems to have reinforced my attempt. It’s made him more corporeal, somehow.”

“And he can shapeshift, as well?”

I nodded. “Another skill he picked up after losing his permanent body. I’m still not entirely sure how my magic helped with that, but…” I trailed off with a shrug.

He was quiet for a moment, his gaze dancing between mine and Phantom’s, before finally settling on my face. He gave me a crooked grin. “You get stranger and stranger, Nova Halestorn.”

“I’ve been called far worse things thanstrange.”

As if to remind me of my inherent strangeness, the turquoise bracelet suddenly tightened on my wrist. I gasped at the burst of pressure, earning me another curious look from Zayn.

He studied all of my bracelets for a moment before he said, “Another bit of strangeness?”

I didn’t reply, too busy searching our surroundings for whatever had triggered the beads’ movement. Was it something about the Light magic protecting this outpost?

And if so, why had it already settled?

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