Chapter Nineteen – Potions Class

Malick’s POV

The smell of sulfur and burnt cinnamon clung to the vaulted classroom like a curse that wouldn’t lift. The air hung thick, weighed down by chalk dust, residual magic, and the faint tang of sweat from long hours of practice. Malick leaned over the blackened cauldron, watching the slick purple liquid churn lazily. Potioncraft had never held his attention—too precise, too reliant on patience. Today, though, it wasn’t the brew that had him distracted.

It was her.

Across the room, Sierra moved with deliberate calm, tucking something small and dark into the inside pocket of her robe. She thought she was subtle. A quick pour into her own cauldron beneath the table, hiding it behind a standard-strength defensive brew. But Malick had spent enough time watching her, enough time learning the rhythm of her hands, the subtle pulse of her magic. He knew when she wasn’t pretending.

And this?

This was ritual.

It was the same potion she took in the mornings—he had caught the faint shimmer on her palm once before, barely perceptible, but etched in memory now. Shadow-suppressant. He frowned slightly, chest tightening. What exactly are you trying to contain, Sierra?

His hand hovered over the final sprig of frostroot as the cauldron at his own station thickened. His eyes never left her.

She had paired today with some poor Ravencliff boy who was clearly distracted by her presence, his gaze lingering on her mouth more than the instructions in the textbook. She ignored him, moving with precision, following instinct more than instruction. The potion beneath her careful hands shimmered faintly with magic, but it wasn’t strong enough. Whatever she was containing would bleed through, eventually.

Malick rose smoothly, making his way across the classroom toward the shelf of additives, pausing just behind her table. He spoke low, almost a whisper, careful to keep it for her alone.

“Try boneblossom extract instead of shadowroot.”

Sierra paused mid-stir, startled. She didn’t glance at him immediately—just finished a slow, careful swirl of her wand through the liquid before looking up, narrowed eyes sharp.

“You watching me, Thorne?”

He gave a half-shrug, pretending to inspect a jar. “Just your technique. You’re good—but not subtle.”

She frowned at the potion, then muttered, “Boneblossom strengthens shadow suppression. It’s not in the textbook.”

“Neither are most things worth knowing,” he said quietly, the corners of his lips tugging into a faint smirk.

Her fingers hovered over the small bottle of boneblossom. Hesitation. Curiosity. He could see it, even from across the room, because she couldn’t fully hide it from him. Malick’s shadows shifted imperceptibly at his feet, sensing the tension in hers.

He smirked faintly as he walked back to his station.

She didn’t ask how he knew. She didn’t deny what the potion was. And she didn’t say thank you.

But when he looked back, she was already adding the extract. The potion deepened to a rich midnight plum, the magic weaving a stable rhythm through the cauldron. Stronger. Darker. Reliable.

His chest tightened.

She trusted him.

Even if it was just a sliver.

That was dangerous.

And addictive.

Sierra’s POV

She hadn’t expected him to notice. Or maybe a small, reckless part of her had hoped he would. Malick always noticed. Always. Even things others missed—little beats in her stance, the ghost of her intentions.

When he had leaned past her, whispering the boneblossom tip, her stomach had jumped, a sudden, unnatural heat crawling along her spine. She should have snapped, scolded him, warned him to mind his own business. But instead, she added the ingredient. The potion shifted under her hands like a living thing, shimmering darker, stronger, almost purring under the magic.

It worked.

And he hadn’t gloated. Hadn’t teased. Hadn’t lingered. He had just… known.

Why do you know how to strengthen shadow suppressants, Malick Thorne? She wondered silently.

A shiver traveled up her spine. She told herself it was just the magic, just a fluctuation in the room’s air, the cauldron’s heat. But she knew it wasn’t. It was him.

She dared to glance across the classroom.

He was watching. Not like the others. Not predatory. Not amused. Not cruel. Watching.

And for the first time in a long while, it didn’t feel like she was being hunted.

It felt like she was being seen.

It made her pulse uneven. It made her stomach twist. Her shadow coiled slightly beneath the table, teasing the edges of his awareness without fully revealing itself. The thrill of being known, really known, was both exhilarating and terrifying.

She caught herself staring back. Not defiantly, but carefully, testing the tether between them, the silent acknowledgment of shared understanding. The heat in her chest flared again, rising in a slow burn that she didn’t dare control.

The class droned on, cauldrons simmering and sigils sketched into the air with flicks of wands. But Sierra’s mind wasn’t on formulas or potion notes. It was on him. On the way his shadows responded to hers, on the subtle tilt of his body as he leaned over his own brew.

Every time she dared a glance, he caught it. Every time he caught it, he didn’t look away.

It was intoxicating.

And dangerous.

Because magic or no magic, shadow or no shadow, they were threading a connection deeper than either of them could explain, a tether pulling tighter with every heartbeat.

Her fingers tightened around her wand. She could feel the potion stabilizing under the boneblossom extract, a quiet, obedient pulse. She could feel Malick’s gaze threading through the air toward her. And she could feel the thrum of shadows at her feet—the echo of something older, something aware, something waiting.

She should have looked away.

But she didn’t.

Malick’s POV

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t break the rhythm of the classroom.

He let her work. Let her follow his advice. Let her potion stabilize. Let her choose to trust him.

It made his shadows coil tighter around his ankles, restless and responsive, alive with the pull between them. Every time her gaze met his, it was like a spark landing on dry tinder. And he had no intention of extinguishing it.

Her magic, her shadow, her essence—it tugged at him, seductive, electric. Malick knew it wasn’t just potioncraft that made his chest tighten, his palms itch to reach across the table. It was her.

Sierra Vale.

With a single glance, a single hesitant flick of her wrist, she could make him uncoil, unravel, lose control. And he wouldn’t fight it—not tonight.

Because he wanted her to see him too.

To know that he saw her.

And that he didn’t intend to look away.