Chapter 15: Delphine

I didn’t run when I left his tower, but I didn’t look back either. I wasn’t sure what I would’ve done if I had. Part of me wanted to throw something, just for the satisfaction. Another part still wanted to kiss him, which was worse.

The castle’s corridors were quieter than usual as I made my way back to the East Wing. Not peaceful—just oddly still, like the whole structure had stopped mid-breath. Even the usual creaks of old stone and shifting magic felt muted. It gave the sensation of walking through a place that was listening carefully, as though waiting to see what I would do next.

My thoughts churned as I walked. Theron’s voice echoed in my head, low and ragged—“If I kiss you now, I won’t stop.” That confession hit harder than it should have. Not just because of what he didn’t do, but because I knew he meant it. And still, he pulled away.

I tried to shake the moment off as I reached the annex. The door was open. That stopped me. I had left it sealed—three layered glyph locks, a salt-and-thread ward across the threshold, and a blood marker keyed to me alone. None of it had been broken. No signs of force or tampering. Just... gone. Quietly and completely undone, as if someone had politely asked the magic to step aside and it had listened.

Stepping into the room, I immediately noticed the disturbance. The table had been cleared of the chalk dust and scattered parchment I’d left behind. My ward diagrams had been moved, shifted just slightly out of their previous orientation. Candles that had burned to the wick were replaced with fresh ones, now flickering steadily. The room smelled faintly of damp stone and crushed lavender.

At the center of the table sat a single black rose.

It was impossible not to stare. The flower was freshly bloomed, petals so dark they shimmered purple in the candlelight. I moved closer, expecting to smell decay or some illusion of rot, but instead I caught the faint scent of soil, spice, and something unmistakably magical. A soft, pulsing glow radiated from the base of the petals, a hum of leyline energy that traced directly back to the central anchor on my map.

I reached out, hesitated, then carefully lifted the rose. It was real. Lush. Alive. Cool to the touch.

And it hadn’t been here before.

No one in the castle could’ve grown this, not without leaving a magical trail—and not without disturbing the wards. That left one conclusion: the castle had placed it here.

Not in warning. Not in challenge.

As a gift.

That realization landed heavily. The castle wasn’t just recognizing me anymore. It was responding with intent. With awareness. And perhaps, with something like affection. Or obsession.

I didn’t know how to feel about that.

For hours, I sat in the annex with the rose resting on a small dish beside my notes. I sketched new containment diagrams and traced leyline patterns by candlelight, trying to distract myself from the heavy weight of what I knew was happening. My magic felt more reactive now, like it didn’t just reside in me but existed in dialogue with the castle. Every spell flickered a little more brightly. Every charm I whispered seemed to echo in the stones.

And yet, none of it frightened me.

I should have been afraid. The castle was showing signs of sentience—real sentience—and I was increasingly certain it had chosen me for something. But I wasn’t afraid. I was curious. Cautious. And maybe, somewhere beneath the logic and wards, flattered.

By the time morning broke, the annex felt different. The temperature had warmed slightly. The walls seemed smoother, closer. When I tried to open the door, I felt a strange resistance—not a lock or a ward, just a delay. The handle turned, the hinges creaked, but the door didn’t open right away. As if the castle was waiting for me to change my mind.

When the door finally gave, the corridor beyond looked unfamiliar.

I stepped through and frowned. The hallway curved differently now, the window at the far end replaced with a blank stone wall. I turned around. The annex door, once clearly marked with a faint sigil of Ashwood lineage, was bare. As if it had never been sealed at all.

The castle was moving things again.

But not randomly.

It was repositioning the space around me, shaping paths, opening certain doors and closing others.

Not to trap me.

To keep me close.

Somewhere beneath my feet, I felt a familiar pull from the leyline network—gentle, steady, purposeful. The central anchor was still pulsing, and I knew without needing to check the map that it was brighter than it had been yesterday.

The castle wasn’t hiding anymore.

It was centering everything around me.

And the question I couldn’t shake, no matter how many protective runes I traced, was this:

What happens when I start wanting it back?