Page 9 of Heir of Shadows

“Deserves it?” Elio laughed, trying to diffuse the situation. “Darling, that kind of thinking gets people executed. Just ask her father. Oh wait…”

“Enough.” I forced ice into my voice, gathering my control back around me like armor. Ember’s flames cooled to a steady amber glow. “The Council wants her gone. Are you with me or not?”

“Always, darling,” Elio drawled, “I do so love a performance.”

We both looked at Keane, who was already deep in another historical tome, new portals showing wellspring records. Wisp watched us all with her ancient eyes that seemed to see too much.

“I’ll observe,” he said finally, choosing each word with careful precision. “And advise. Nothing more.”

After they left, I stared into the flames, letting their heat ground me. But Ember’s wing brushed my cheek in an oddly gentle gesture.

“Don’t you start too,” I muttered. But I couldn’t quite silence the whisper of doubt in my mind: how had the wellspring chosen an heir? And if it had, how could she be unworthy?

I fed the flames higher, drowning out that thought in pure heat. Let it burn. Let everyone fear the fire. Fear was better than doubt.

4

Marigold

The cathedral doorsof Wickem loomed like something out of a gothic horror novel. Big, dramatic, and absolutely judging me.

My legs trembled as I climbed the stone steps, still reeling from the overwhelming symphony of death magic saturating the grounds. Each whisper from the dead felt like silk against my skin—intimate and unsettling, and each shadow seemed to caress me as I passed.

The entrance hall stretched impossibly high, its vaulted ceiling disappearing into shadows that even the floating orbs of light couldn’t penetrate. Ancient magic thrummed through the stone columns, their carved symbols shifting and flowing like living things when I wasn’t looking directly at them. The dead things whispered about generations of students who’d walked these halls—some who’d never left, their presence lingering in every shadow.

Ms. Parker guided me through polished wooden doors marked ‘Administration’.

Behind an imposing desk sat a man with steel-gray hair and glasses, his pristine suit making my travel-worn clothes feel even shabbier. The nameplate read “Mr. Fernsby, Director of Student Services.”

“Miss Grimley.” His voice was hard.

“It’s Brook, actually.” The name Mom had given me, the only name I’d known for eighteen years.

Mr. Fernsby’s lips thinned. “Grimley was your father’s name, and as his heir, it is your proper title here.” He shuffled through my paperwork with precise, irritated movements. “Three days late for orientation. Not an auspicious start.”

“I’ve always used Brook,” I insisted, but Mr. Fernsby was already moving on, sliding my student ID across his pristine desk. Sure enough, it shimmered with “Marigold Grimley” in elegant script. I squinted at the half-way decent photo of me. When had they even taken it? I’d only just arrived.

“You are your father’s daughter.” His disapproval was clear in every crisp syllable. “The sooner you accept that reality, the better. Yourunusualbackground will make things challenging enough.”

The way he said “unusual” made it clear exactly what he thought of traitors’ daughters in his precious school—or maybe it was half-human witches. Either way, I’d heard that tone before, from a hundred rich clients who saw the servants as less than human.Oh joy, a whole new way to be hated.

“Ms. Wallace will show you around,” he said, clearly eager to be rid of me.

A woman stepped out from a nearby office, her sapphire blazer complementing her warm brown skin. Her smile at least seemed genuine, though something about it niggled at my senses. The dead things in the walls grew restless, whispering warnings I couldn’t quite catch.

Parker’s phone buzzed. “Councillor Raynoff needs me.” She squeezed my shoulder. “You’ll be fine with Ms. Wallace.”

I nodded, feeling a bit bereft as the only person I knew disappeared.

“Come along,” Ms. Wallace said, her voice kind and professional.

I was going to be alright.

That calm lasted precisely until we stepped into the main hall. Wallace’s form shimmered like heat waves, transforming into something altogether different.

Where Wallace had been all business and brisk efficiency, the guy in front of me was pure charm wrapped in designer smugness. Pale blonde hair, tousled like someone had spent a fortune making it look effortless. Ice-blue eyes sparkled with mischief—and the kind of precision that could cut.

He moved like he knewexactlyhow he looked: lean, polished, and unfairly good at wearing clothes that probably cost more than my entire existence. My mouth went dry, which was just rude of my body, honestly.

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