Chapter Five – Tangled Shadows

Sierra’s POV

The walk back to the changing rooms felt longer than it should have.

Every step throbbed through her cheek, the sting from Elara’s hit fading into a deep, bruised ache. But the pain wasn’t what kept her jaw clenched. It was the way her magic had woken beneath her skin—restless, prowling, whispering half-formed words she couldn’t quite understand. The shadows were like smoke inside her veins, heavy and hot, curling around her ribs as though eager to spill free if she loosened her grip for even a moment.

Her mind was a storm. Thoughts collided, scattered, sharpened.

Why did he step in?

Why did it matter to him?

And why… why did my name sound different when he said it? Softer, like it belonged to him somehow?

The corridor ahead buzzed with laughter. The others filtered out in groups, already recounting the match as if it had been nothing more than a game. Their normalcy grated against her nerves. Every word they spoke was shallow, fleeting, forgettable. Sierra hated the way it made her feel—like she was something apart from them, something lurking in the dark while they danced in sunlight.

Elara wasn’t anywhere in sight—probably still sprawled on the grass, whining over the rugby ball collision. Sierra didn’t feel guilty. Not even close. Malick had thrown that ball with a precision and force that felt too sharp to be an accident. Like he’d been waiting for the moment, carving his rage into motion. And that look on his face when Elara went down… it wasn’t just victory. There was a hint of protectiveness, but she couldn’t be sure.

Her pulse quickened. She forced her steps steady, even as the whispers beneath her skin coiled tighter, hungrier.

When she reached the changing-room corridor, he was there.

Malick.

He leaned against the stone archway, posture loose but not careless. Shadows clung to him the way heat clings to flame, shifting around his frame like they knew him, like they chose him. His eyes lifted as she approached.

He didn’t speak right away. Just looked at her.

Not like the others did—curious, judgmental, or quietly afraid. His gaze was steady, unnervingly steady, like he already knew something about her that she herself hadn’t uncovered yet. It wasn’t heavy, but it rooted her to the spot all the same, making her skin prickle as if the very air had shifted around her.

“You good?” he asked.

His voice was rougher now, gravel scraped smooth by fire. But beneath that grit was something layered, something soft that made her blink. She hadn’t expected softness from him. She hadn’t expected… anything from him.

“Yeah… I’m fine,” she said, forcing her tone casual.

“You don’t look fine.”

The bluntness caught her off guard. Her frown came quick, sharp. “Thanks,” she muttered, the word harsher than she’d intended.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it wasn’t cruel. His eyes stayed on her face, steady, searching. “Didn’t mean it like that.”

Her chest tightened. She bit the inside of her cheek, fighting the urge to step back, to cut the moment short. She should’ve walked away already. Should’ve brushed past him, locked herself in the changing room, buried all of this beneath her skin again. But her legs stayed rooted.

And then she noticed it.

The shadows.

Not the ones cast by the corridor lights, sharp and ordinary. These were slower. Deliberate. Alive.

Hers stretched out from her feet, flickering at the edges. His shifted too, curling forward. And then, inch by inch, they reached for one another.

The corridor seemed to still. The air hummed, thickening like something unseen was holding its breath.

And then—

They touched.

A pulse surged through her chest, a deep vibration that felt like the earth itself had struck a chord. It sank into her bones, filled her lungs with something too heavy, too vast to hold. Her skin prickled, gooseflesh racing up her arms, and the glyph etched beneath her sleeve flared faintly in response.

Malick flinched, only slightly, but she saw it—he felt it too.

Their shadows didn’t just touch. They twined. Black threads curling together, coiling and spiraling like serpents testing each other’s strength. Winding tighter, closer, until she couldn’t tell where hers ended and his began.

Neither of them moved. Neither of them breathed.

For a single, suspended moment, the ordinary world fell away. The laughter of classmates faded, the stone corridor dissolved, the academy itself vanished. They stood in a hollow of time carved out by something old and powerful, something neither of them could name.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

“What the hell…” she whispered, voice trembling.

Malick didn’t answer. His gaze had gone sharp, inward, like he was listening to a voice buried deep in his own blood. His jaw flexed, tight with a recognition that mirrored the echo rattling inside her chest. He looked like he knew this—this binding, this connection—even if he couldn’t remember how.

And then—he stepped back.

The shadows tore apart, snapping to their owners like startled birds scattering into the sky. The pulse vanished, but the hum remained, faint and restless in her veins. The absence hit her like cold water, a hollow that spread through her chest and left her shivering.

She wrapped her arms around herself, dragging in a shaky breath.

“I’ve gotta get changed…” she muttered, voice brittle, and forced her legs to move. She brushed past him, heart hammering so loud she was sure he could hear it.

But before she could escape, his voice followed.

“That thing with Elara…”

Her steps faltered. Slowly, she turned back.

His eyes caught hers. And for the first time, she saw it—silver flecks burning faintly beneath the black. Not harsh. Not threatening. Just undeniable.

“It was about you,” he said.

Then he turned and walked away, shadows slipping after him like loyal hounds.

Sierra stood frozen, the corridor suddenly too empty, too wide. The clatter of lockers and footsteps blurred into meaningless noise. Behind her, her shadow curled and uncurled, restless, echoing the rhythm of the pulse that had bound them only moments ago.

Her hands trembled at her sides. She pressed her fingers into her sleeves, chasing warmth, chasing control.

What was that? She thought. Why did it feel… like recognition? Like something inside me was answering him?

The whispers stirred again, softer now, but insistent. Their cadence was almost familiar, threading into her memory like her mother’s voice—warning, guiding.

The boy… the shadows… the spark…

Her breath hitched. She had never felt magic move like this. Not during training. Not in secret. Not even in the moments where she’d lost control and feared what she was becoming.

This wasn’t power. This wasn’t a weapon.

This was alive. Connected.

And that was terrifying.

Her cheek throbbed with every beat of her heart, a reminder of Elara, of her own fury, of the way everything had spiraled out of her hands. But deeper than that pain was something else now—Malick’s presence, lingering like smoke in her lungs.

She turned to the changing room door, hand hovering over the handle, but her feet resisted. Because she knew, bone-deep, that this wasn’t about today.

Not about the rugby ball.

Not about Elara.

Not even about the slip of control I almost lost.

This was bigger.

Much bigger.