Page 23 of Heir of Shadows

Just when I thought I’d lose myself to it, something else caught me. Not a barrier. Not a force pushing back. But a pull—like the other heirs’ magic had reached for mine at the exact moment I reached for it.

Cyrus’s flames turned blue where they met my spirits. Not cold, not weak—just different. Brighter. More like energy than fire. His phoenix flared its wings, letting out a sound that sent a shiver through the room.

Elio’s illusions didn’t just shimmer; they settled. The ghostly figures he created—meant to be untouchable, ephemeral—felt heavier, like my necromancy had anchored them. His chameleon’s scales flared through a series of fast, anxious color shifts.

Keane’s portals wavered—just for a second. The edges smoothed into something silver and clean. But then the darkness fought back, and his fox let out a small, distressed noise, pressing harder against his legs. Keane’s hands curled at his sides.

We moved together without thinking, our magic weaving patterns older than Wickem itself. The differences that had divided us—blood, training, tradition—meant nothing to power that recognized its own. The raw magic below the stage surged in response, like something ancient was waking after a long sleep.

The shapes on the stage flickered—just for a moment. Not just in color, but in something deeper, something in the air. The weight of the room changed. It wasn’t just my imagination. Even the wellspring itself felt different.

I glanced toward the front row. President Sprig’s fingers tightened around his staff. Not much. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But he had expected something different.

The Councilors sat still, unreadable in their high-backed chairs. Maybe nothing had changed. Maybe I had imagined it. But then I caught a shift in posture, a glance exchanged too fast for me to catch between them. And I wasn’t the only one who noticed.

Cyrus was looking at his hands like his own fire had startled him. Elio’s expression wasn’t just impressed—it was calculating. And Keane…Keane wasn’t looking at me at all. His fox pressed so tightly against his legs now that he barely moved.

The students murmured behind us. I caught fragments—”Stronger than last year’s display”—”Did you see that phoenix?”—but their awe felt distant compared to the silence in the front row. The Council didn’t speak. They barely moved. But something was different.

As we took our seats in the front row, I felt the shift in the air. Something had changed tonight—in us, in Wickem, in the very magic that flowed through these halls. The dead things whispered warnings I didn’t yet understand.

Later that night,I stood on my balcony, letting the mountain air cool my skin. The wellspring’s power still hummed through Wickem’s foundations, but now I understood what I’d been sensing since I arrived. The pure energy flowing through the walls like clean water, feeding magic into every stone.

The skeletal mouse who’d been following me since my first day perched on the railing beside me, his bones catching the moonlight like bleached ivory. He looked like something pulled from a fairy tale’s darker pages—delicate spine curved just slightly, ribcage hollow but sturdy, tail bones curling and uncurling like a question mark. Tiny whorls of shadow clung to his joints, twitching with life, and the faintest green shimmer glowed from the sockets of his skull.

“Scout,” I said softly. His whiskers—made of braided threads of darkness, I realized—twitched at the name. “That’s who you are, isn’t it? My familiar.”

He chittered happily, climbing onto my outstretched hand. His empty eye sockets glowed with the same necromantic energy I’d felt during the ceremony. Not just random magic, but a true connection—like the phoenix’s bond with Cyrus or the chameleon’s understanding of Elio or Keane’s with his fox.

I studied him, heart tugging in a way I hadn’t expected. Then I slipped back inside and dug through my trinket box I kept on the desk. I pushed aside a smooth rock from a river, and the handful of beads from a broken bracelet until I found a bit of black ribbon, frayed at the edge but still soft. I picked it up, nodding to myself.

Then I tied it carefully around Scout’s neck, forming a tiny, crooked bow tie.

He stood straighter immediately, puffed up with pride like a skeletal gentleman ready to crash a royal ball.

“You like it?” I asked, and he clicked once, decisively. Yeah, he liked it.

Back outside, we watched the mountains dissolve into shadow while the wellspring pulsed below, calling to something ancient in my blood.

The others had felt it too. Cyrus’s flames had flared impossibly blue. Elio’s illusions had taken on weight and shape like they wanted to become real. Keane’s portals had glimmered silver.

For a moment, everything had worked exactly as it should. I was sure of that.

Now, with the ceremony fading behind us, something quieter stirred in my awareness. A slight wrongness in the air. Not everywhere—but in small patches, like cold spots in warm water. Places where the magic didn’t sing—it hummed flat, or not at all.

I twisted my father’s ring on its chain. The way my magic had flowed into the wellspring—it hadn’t felt accidental. It had feltinvited. As if something in this place recognized me, remembered me.

Scout shifted on the railing beside me, bones clicking softly. His empty eye sockets glowed faintly as he peered at the walls, and his tail curled in that curious question-mark shape.

He’d changed since I named him. Or maybe I’d changed.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” I whispered.

He clicked in response—sharp, alert—and darted up my arm to perch on my shoulder. Not just company now. A part of me.

“We’re staying,” I told Scout. “Whatever’s happening here—with the magic, with my father’s legacy, with all of it—I need to understand.”

Scout let out a soft, bone-dry chitter, like encouragement—or approval.

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