Page 17 of Stolen Magic

Channeling even a thread of magic felt like scraping the bottom of my soul. The burning seal pulsed beneath my skin, its dark lines flaring with malevolent heat. I kept my hand hidden in the folds of my gown, the cool silk offering a faint reprieve from the searing pain.

With one final push, I broke through the resistance holding me back. My spell surged forward, threadbare but precise, embedding the false memory deep within Prince Callan’s mind—his first meeting not with the true princess, but the stranger who stood before him.

I felt my magic’s last vestiges deplete as the spell took hold, leaving behind a cold, aching hollowness where my magic had once thrived. With no power left to shield or aid me aside from the dwindling traces of wild magic in my pouch, I would be on my own for whatever came, forced to solely rely on wit and deception until I could reclaim the magic I knew was hidden somewhere within the palace walls.

The aftermath struck swiftly. A wave of weakness swept over me and the edges of my vision blurred. The chandeliers overhead fractured into a cascade of glittering halos, casting the dais in a dizzying haze. My knees wavered, threatening to collapse.

My fingers groped the cool stone of a nearby pillar to steady myself. I drew a slow, deliberate breath and glanced around, praying the courtiers remained too absorbed in their displays of flattery and etiquette to notice my discomfort or faltering poise.

Unfortunately someone had.

A hand pressed against my back—steady, firm, and disarmingly gentle. I flinched, startled not by the sudden touch, but by the comfort it offered. Prince Callan stood beside me, close enough for me to see the faint crease between his brows, the subtle flush on his cheeks, and the brightness in his eyes, filled with unguarded concern.

“You’re rather pale. Are you alright?” He kept his voice pitched low. There was no formal flourish in his words, no courtly affectation—just worry, simple yet seemingly real.

His unexpected tenderness nearly unraveled me. For a breath I found myself captured by the warmth of it before coming to my senses. The touch I had momentarily found comforting turned to fire beneath my skin, and I had to fightthe instinct to recoil—I couldn’t reject the affection of the man whose heart I intended to win…and eventually break.

This was the moment of truth. Despite the ache lingering around my cursed seal and the weight of exhaustion settling over me, I had to meet it with all the grace expected of the princess I was impersonating. Gathering the last of my strength, I lifted my chin and met the prince’s gaze with a confidence I didn’t feel, burying my turmoil beneath a flawless façade of regal composure.

I masked my grimace with a practiced smile. “Thank you for your concern, but I’m quite well. The journey was simply more taxing than I thought.”

Even with my assurances he didn’t step away. Our closeness brought his face into full view. He was handsome, as one might expect of a prince—but not in the aloof, polished way of painted nobles. There was surprising warmth in his features, a quiet strength in his jaw, and a softness in the way he looked at me—like someone precious, even while searching for something he desperately needed to find.

His puzzlement lingered for the briefest moment, his brow creased not with worry but with hesitation, as if his mind was struggling to grasp for a thread just beyond his reach.

For a fleeting moment I feared my powers had been too weak and the spell upon his mind hadn’t worked…and then his expression shifted, subtle at first, then unmistakable as the enchantment took hold. Recognition bloomed behind his eyes as the false memory rooted itself, erasing the uncertainty as his confusion faded, replaced by familiarity, confirmation the illusion had taken hold.

“You look just as I remembered,” he murmured.

The sincerity in his voice made my breath catch. I offered him a faint smile, masking the tremor behind my lips. “As do you, Your Highness.”

He smiled in return, visibly relieved, and finally stepped back—though not far, lingering close enough to steady me if I required his aid further. The proximity unsettled me; I could still feel the echo of his touch at my back, grounding me in a way I couldn’t afford to acknowledge. I might have won the first move in this dangerous game, but I hadn't expected to feel its cost so soon.

He extended his hand with a gentle smile, his tone formal but warm. “Welcome to Eldoria, Princess Gwendolyn. We’ve been eagerly awaiting your arrival.”

His voice was smooth and inviting, touched with a hint of shyness that didn’t match the cold, calculated persona I had crafted for him from the subtext of his letters that I had long convinced myself were laced with manipulation.

“Thank you, Prince Callan,” I replied, my voice steady despite the churn of emotion beneath it. “It is an honor to be here. I look forward to our future together.”

Each word was a step down the path I’d chosen, each breath drawing me closer to either triumph or ruin. I expected him to respond with the next line in the well-rehearsed script of royal protocol. But instead, a blush engulfed his cheeks and he lowered his gaze, saying nothing. A flicker of doubt pierced my certainty. Words could be rehearsed, polished, performed…but a blush was much harder to fake.

The flags bearing Eldoria’s crest blurred into a sea of color as I clasped Prince Callan’s hand. In stark contrast with the war raging inside me, his touch was unexpectedly gentle just as it had been the first time, so different to the rigid grip I had braced myself to endure.

My gown whispered across the marble floor as he guided me deeper into the grand hall, his manner unfailingly courteous and attentive.

We wrestled with silence for a long moment before he spoke again, his voice tentative. “I hope your journey was comfortable. Wait, you already told me it was long. I promise I was listening, I’m just…a little nervous.” The words sounded strained, as if each one had to fight its way past his natural bashfulness.

“The journey was long, but bearable.” I allowed a measured smile to touch my lips, the kind I imagined Princess Gwendolyn might offer, poised somewhere between gratitude and grace.

Prince Callan nodded, visibly pleased—and undeniably relieved—by my response. Then he turned, gesturing towards the opulent dais where his father sat, draped in a robe of gold-threaded velvet and flanked by guards and towering banners. I hadn’t realized how much ease I’d unconsciously found in the prince’s unexpectedly soothing presence until it vanished beneath the weight of the king’s gaze.

My breath hitched. There he was—the monarch who had haunted my nightmares for a decade and been the object of my hatred for a decade. The man whose crest had flown over the soldiers who had burned my village, whose orders had stolen my mother’s life, and carved a curse into my skin. The heat of the memory surged through me like a rising tide of fire—fast, furious, and consuming.

My fingers twitched at my side, as if the dormant magic sealed within me stirred, yearning to be unleashed. If I hadn’t already spent the last of it to rewrite his son’s memory, I might have done something reckless. I could feel fury’s pull, the temptation to blaze through my power to let vengeance burn through my disguise.

But there were no spells left to cast, no power left to betray me. Only the quiet, hollow ache of depletion and the iron resolve I had forged from grief and ash. The merciful emptiness steadied me; for now, it would have to be enough.

My gaze shifted to the man who sat next to him, who wore no royal robe or emblem but clearly held some form of power. A shock ran through me as I recognized a faint tugging sensation. Whoever this man was, he had magic. I would have to watch my step very carefully if the king had a mage at his right hand.

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