Page 93 of Magical Moonbeam
“Close your eyes,” Ardetia said softly. “We’ll walk you through the first spell. If it responds, we move forward.”
I did as she said.
The forge rose around me in my mind as the heat and the memory of that first visit, with the sprites circling high above, ran through me.
The memory I gave them wasn’t a sad one. It was a small moment. The first time my dad taught me how to skip stones.His hands over mine, his gruff bark of laughter when I missed entirely and splashed us both.
It wasn’t grand.
But it was mine.
And it was strong.
I whispered the words Ardetia gave me, with soft, strange syllables that felt like ash,salt, and sand.
The crystal pulsed.
The air thickened.
And suddenly, the flame roared to life within it, catching, bright, impossibly hot. My breath hitched. It was like something inside me was cracking open and reshaping all at once.
Bella was at my side instantly, one hand on my arm, grounding me with her warmth.
Ardetia’s voice drifted close to my ear. “You did it.”
I opened my eyes, blinking against the light.
The orb floated in the space between us, steady and bright, holding the fire of what I’d offered.
A piece of me.
And I didn’t feel broken.
I felt ready, almost.
Bella let out a slow breath. “That’s one. How many more, Ardetia?”
“Two,” the fae murmured. “The next will be harder. One for the protection of Stonewick. One for the unraveling of the curse.”
“And what was this one?” I asked.
Ardetia’s smile was faint, but sure. “This was the call.”
The room dimmed again as the orb faded into stillness.
But I knew better.
It was waiting, just like the rest of us, to see if I could keep my secrets secret.
Chapter Twenty-Three
My bones ached.
Not the sharp kind of ache from bumping into an old stone wall or falling asleep on an uneven pillow, but the kind that burrowed deep, into the marrow, whispering things likeyou weren’t made for thisandwhy don’t you just sleep for days?
But resting felt more dangerous than moving forward.
The spell had taken more than I expected. Maybe that was the price. Perhaps I should’ve expected it, but no one could ever prepare you for the weight of weaving your memories into fire while altering them enough. No one could explain the strange emptiness that followed, as if a beloved book had been returned to the shelf and you couldn’t remember where you’d left off.
