Chapter Eighteen – Flicker Between

Sierra’s POV

The morning light felt… wrong.

Golden and soft, sure, but there was a weight beneath it. A pulse in the walls. A hush where there should’ve been the constant buzz of life. Sierra sat up slowly, the blanket tangled around her like she’d fought something in her sleep. Her skin prickled, shadows at the edge of her awareness stirring like they sensed the wrongness before she fully registered it.

She hadn’t dreamed. Or maybe she had—and something had made her forget. There was a void there, like memory had been erased by someone—or something—older than time.

As she moved, the candle beside her flared for no reason, guttering like it had caught a ghost’s breath. The mirror above her desk fogged at the corners. Her ink bottle cracked the moment her fingers brushed it. Tiny lines crept across the glass, like spiderwebs of light that shouldn’t have been there.

Something’s off.

She tried to ignore the nervous fluttering in her stomach. Probably just post-practical fatigue. She had drawn more shadow than usual the day before—pulled, twisted, molded it in ways that had left her exhausted, trembling.

But the halls were too quiet.

No cruel snickering. No perfume cloud slamming into her chest. No Gloria cracking her knuckles or Patricia trailing a ribbon of hexed gloss along the lockers. No Elara with her sugar-blade voice and razor-sharp smile.

The Crows were gone.

Not officially. She hadn’t asked anyone. But she felt it—like pressure lifting from a bruise. It should’ve been a relief.

It wasn’t. The silence made her skin crawl, made her toes curl against the cool stone of the floor. It felt like the calm before a storm, a breath held too long.

Sierra adjusted the too-big shirt she still hadn’t returned to Malick. He hadn’t asked for it. She had washed it twice, folded it once, and then immediately unfolded it and put it back on. Warm, familiar, and maddeningly intimate—it smelled faintly like him, like the storm that clung to his skin, like every corner of him she’d imagined.

She took the long way to her next class. Not because she wanted to avoid the stairwell traffic, or the chokepoint by the library… but because he sometimes passed this way.

And maybe today—

A door creaked open just ahead. Sierra’s heart stuttered.

Malick.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Shadows crawling along his sleeves like inked storms. His eyes were darker today, stormier, pulling her in before she had a chance to pull away. Their gazes locked—just for a second too long.

Something flickered. Warm and static, like the spark before a lightning strike. Her stomach twisted. She swore she heard something in her head—her own voice, except not quite, echoing with a tone that was foreign yet intimate.

“Malick!” Her eyes went wide.

Did I just—?

No. Impossible.

She flushed red-hot and dipped her head, brushing past him with a strangled mutter of, “Sorry.” Her fingers barely avoided grazing his as she passed. Behind her, she didn’t see him turn to watch her go, didn’t feel the shadows coil at his feet.

But she did feel a low thrum in her bones, like something ancient had just looked up from its sleep. Something waiting, aware.

Malick’s POV

There was something wrong in the air.

Malick had felt it the moment he left the East Tower—not a threat exactly, more like… awareness. Like something was watching from behind his own eyes, seeing him before he saw it. Shadows flickered beneath his sleeves, restless. He ran a hand down his jaw, trying to settle them. No luck.

He hadn’t seen the Crows all morning. No Elara flipping her hair and murmuring venom-laced compliments to distract him. No Gloria trailing with that predator’s gaze that made his skin crawl. No Patricia’s cold smirk, no teasing ribbon of hexed gloss. The halls felt cleaner without them. Easier to breathe.

But that didn’t explain the static in his chest. Or the whisper he’d heard while leaving the archives—the tiny, sharp pull at his mind:

He’s dangerous. But gods, I want him anyway.

Not out loud. Not from behind a door.

And then he saw her.

Sierra.

Wearing his shirt. Still. Gods help him. She was flushed, lips slightly parted, eyes that glimmered with heat and tension, like she’d just climbed three flights of stairs—or sprinted toward something she couldn’t name.

Their eyes met. Something clicked. The hallway fell away. Time stuttered.

He heard her voice again, barely a whisper, not quite audible, but perfect:

“Malick.”

He froze.

She was retreating down the corridor, hips swaying slightly with the ghost of her step, the flicker of her shadow sliding along the walls behind her. She turned her head for just half a second—trying to be casual, failing miserably.

And it made something viciously soft twist in his chest.

Malick wanted to step forward, wanted to reach out and catch her mid-stride. But he stayed rooted. He let himself watch her, memorizing the way her hair caught the light, the way her fingers flexed against the fabric of his shirt, the subtle flare of heat along her neck and collarbone.

Something low and coiled stirred in him. Protective, possessive, hungry. And he hated that he wanted it. Hated that he wanted her.

Sierra’s POV

She forced herself to focus on the walk to class, on the familiar stone beneath her boots, the flick of banners in the hall. Every step was measured. Controlled. But her shadow stirred. Small tendrils brushed against the edges of the hallway walls, restless and electric.

Her stomach clenched. Something in the air was… wrong. The Crows weren’t here. Not one of them. Not a single note of mockery or threat. And yet, the absence wasn’t peace. It wasn’t normal. It was the quiet of something that had been waiting.

Her hand brushed the fabric of the shirt again—his shirt—and heat flared along her skin. A soft, flickering warmth that had nothing to do with the sun, the air, or even her own pulse.

She paused. Just for a second. Felt the pull—the faint, impossible tug of him nearby. And, for one heartbeat, she imagined what it would be like if she could reach across the distance, just once, and let the thread snap taut between them.

Her pulse raced. Her shadows twitched. And she realized, with a thrill and a dread she couldn’t name, that she wanted it.

Something ancient, something awake, whispered in the hollow of her chest. Something that had been stirred the night before. Something calling her attention in a way that made all other concerns fade.

Malick’s POV

He didn’t move from the corner, didn’t call her back. But he could feel her. The way her presence bent the air, bent the shadows, and tangled with his own.

The pull was sharp, addictive, and impossible to ignore. His shadows crept along the floor, twisting toward hers, brushing the edges of her aura without touching.

He wanted to reach out, to feel her warmth under his fingers, to claim the air she moved through. But he didn’t.

Not yet.

Instead, he let himself watch. Let the line between desire and danger blur, let the silent, heavy charge of magic and pulse thrum between them.

And he knew, as surely as he knew the sun would rise, that nothing could prepare him for what came next.

Because Sierra Vale wasn’t just a girl in his path. She was a storm he had no choice but to run toward—and a fire he might never survive.