Page 23 of Stolen Magic

“You were admiring them yesterday,” he explained. “A patch grows in the garden. I woke early to pick them for you.”

It took me a moment to work through my surprise to remember the moment he spoke of—when we had passed the vase of violets blooming in the corridor en route to the parlor. The sight had momentarily lured my focus away from my mission, leading it back to sunlit memories of violets growing wild in my childhood garden.

In that moment, I hadn’t been Princess Gwendolyn at all…but the witch Lysandra,Lysa…a small falter in my disguise that the prince’s keen observation had unfortunately noticed.

I glanced around, wondering what to put my bouquet in, and Prince Callan awkwardly held out a small crystal pitcher. When I gave him a puzzled look, he dropped his eyes in embarrassment. “I couldn’t find a vase and I didn’t want to risk missing you. I’ll find something better later.”

I took the pitcher, gently setting the bouquet in the unconventional container.

“You’d told me your favorite flowers were roses.” His tone was light and conversational, but in my growing paranoia, I imagined the suspicion lurking beneath the observation. “Do violets have any special meaning?”

This was not a memory I wanted to share—least of all with him. But his unexpected tenderness had caught me off guard, stripping away my defenses. Before I could stop myself, I found myself sharing a portion of my guarded heart. “They remind me of my mother.”

A tender look filled his eyes, so raw and sincere I had to look away. But even as I burrowed my nose in the purple and white blooms the feelings he’d invoked lingered, encircling my heart with a longing I hadn’t allowed myself to feel in years.

“A memory of your mother?” he asked softly. “Won’t you share it with me?”

His voice was so coaxing, so gentle, I very nearly did…almost. But I had already exposed too much of my true self. Instead I softly said, “I’m so sorry about your mother. You must miss her very much.”

Callan nodded, but though he looked slightly disappointed, he didn’t press me…something he undoubtedly should have done if his purpose was to extract information from me, as mine was for him.

He is just luring you into a false sense of security. But the familiar warning seemed less convincing than it had the night before.

I was horrified by how easily I’d allowed myself to slip—to succumb to a moment of vulnerability, as if the roles between us had been reversed and I was the prey instead of the hunter. As if he—rather than I—were the master manipulator in this deadly game, allowing me to forget it was nothing more than an elaborate tournament in which we were opponents.

This man was far more dangerous than I had imagined. I would have to be more vigilant.

I tried to strengthen the shield protecting my heart and steel myself against his disarming warmth, but it was difficult with the violets’ gentle perfume bathing me in nostalgia and sweet memories of my childhood in the woods with Mother, surrounded by the magic I had loved.

Unlike the necklace he’d given me, this gift felt far less calculated—a gesture born of kindness, of care, emotions I didn’t want to notice. He wasn’t supposed to be this considerate, not the son of a king whose throne was stained with my mother’s and so many others’ blood, not to mention the countless other atrocities to his name. Prince Callan was meant to be as cold, calculated, and cruel as his father. Yet the look on his face now wasn’t deceit, nor, despite my opinion of his motives, did it seem to be a performance.

It was hope.

“You’re smiling,” he said with a hint of wonder. “Does that mean you like them?” His pleasure at my reaction to his gift caused an unexpected twinge in my chest, clouding my mind with further confusion.

Startled, I touched my lips, tracing the faint smile I hadn’t realized had formed. I shook my head in denial, but he only stepped closer, his own easy grin tugging at his mouth.

“But you are,” he insisted gently. “See? Right there.”

He pressed the corner of my mouth lightly with his fingertip. Warmth spread from the simple touch, as if he’d cast a spell to encourage my smile. The sensation was overwhelming and frightening, leaving me lightheaded—not an ideal state to plot and calculate strategy.

As his supposed fiancée I allowed the touch, telling myself I had the fortitude to bear it for these agonizing, seemingly endless seconds. But though he eventually withdrew his hand, he didn’t immediately step back. Instead he remained far too close, his presence wrapping around me like a cloak of warmth I couldn’t shake.

His gaze drifted lower, landing on the pendant at my throat—not the one he had given Princess Gwendolyn, but the one he had crafted for me the night before. His eyes widened as he reached out to softly brush the chain, cradling the pendant lightly in his palm. He looked at me expectantly, as if awaiting for a response that would forge the connection he seemed keen on painstakingly building.

I was in no condition to pretend, nor summon the distance I desperately needed. Still clinging to the crumbling remnants of my script, I lifted the violets to my nose once more and inhaled their sweet scent. I used the moment to gather my composure before peering up at him with a soft smile that, to my horror, felt far less rehearsed than it should have.

“Since my arrival I’ve already been the recipient of two thoughtful gestures. You must be careful lest I grow spoiled. Is there a specific reason behind such generosity?”

He shrugged, the movement easy and unguarded. “None in particular. I just wanted to make you happy.”

I blinked, momentarily at a loss for words, unable to understand such a simple apparent motive. “You wanted to make me…happy?”

He nodded without hesitation. “Isn’t that a husband’s job for his beloved wife?”

The wordbelovedsent a pleasant ripple down my spine and I desperately hoped I wasn’t flushed crimson. “Does that duty truly exist in a political arrangement?” In my fluster my voice emerged more sharply than I intended.

Something flickered in his eyes—disappointment, perhaps, or confusion; maybe even a little hurt. “It doesn’t matter how our union began,” he said quietly. “Marriage should be something more than obligation.”

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