Chapter 9: Delphine

I needed to work.

Not pace. Not stew. Not replay the weirdly intense conversation with Lord Broods-in-the-Dark like some lovesick apprentice. No—tonight was for grounding. For magic. For answers.

Magic—when it isn't screaming or unraveling—is a strangely stabilizing thing. It gives your hands something to do while your mind tries to process what the hell you’ve just stepped into. And I’d clearly stepped into something tangled, ancient, and quietly carnivorous.

I knelt in the center of my sitting room, surrounding myself with tools: salt beads, silver thread, chalk etched with leyline dust, moon-sanded glass, and a fresh sheet of enchanted parchment the size of a full windowpane. I tapped the corners of the paper, whispering a levitation charm. The edges lifted gently off the floor, floating like breath held still.

Then I lit the candles. Nine of them. One for each known anchor in the castle’s leyline system.

Only six stayed lit.

“That’s not great,” I muttered under my breath, grabbing the nearest quill and scratching quick notes across the margin of the parchment. “Three anchors flickering or gone. I haven’t even touched the West Wing yet.”

I closed my eyes, pressing my fingers to the stone beneath me. Magic radiated outward from my palm—not a surge, but a seeker. A steady, deliberate pulse reaching for the fractured network buried deep beneath the castle’s skin.

The response came fast. Too fast.

Instead of the expected sluggish hum of decaying power, something reached back. It snapped into me like static on wet skin—eager, sharp, familiar.

Familiar.

I pulled away with a sharp gasp, almost toppling backward into the candles. My fingertips buzzed. The castle’s energy had surged through me—not resisting. Not warning.

It had recognized me.

Worse still, it had welcomed me in.

“Okay,” I whispered, heart pounding. “Definitely not part of the job description.”

Before I could regroup, a knock interrupted the moment. Two precise, deliberate taps. Too confident to be Mira. Too polite to be Theron.

I stood cautiously and opened the door to exactly the person I least wanted to see.

Cassian leaned against the frame with practiced elegance, all smug grin and polished fangs. His long coat draped perfectly, dark as spilled ink, and his expression was that of a predator who already knew how the chase ended.

“You’re working late,” he said, eyes flicking to the floating parchment behind me. “Diligent little contractor.”

“Still here, I see,” I replied coolly. “I was hoping you might've tripped into a sunbeam.”

Cassian chuckled, clearly delighted. “Charming. Though I hear you’ve been charming more than just me. Lord Valemont seems... animated lately.”

I crossed my arms, refusing to let him step further. “What do you want, Cassian?”

“Only to talk,” he said, lifting both hands innocently. “You’re making quite an impression. Breaking seals, unraveling wards, charming sentient architecture... Impressive. And dangerous.”

“Funny,” I said flatly, “I was just about to say the same to you.”

His smile sharpened. “This castle eats the unwary, Miss Ashwood. You should consider who benefits from letting you wander freely.”

I leaned forward slightly, voice low. “And you should consider that threatening me might be bad for your fangs.”

Cassian’s eyes narrowed—barely. He bowed his head mockingly. “A fair warning. I’ll let you get back to your… spellwork.”

He turned and walked away with infuriating calm, leaving behind a tension that clung like smoke. I slammed the door harder than I meant to.

When I turned back to the spell, the candles had gone out.

All of them.

The parchment hovered for a beat—then curled at the edges, blackening slightly at the corners like paper held too close to fire.

I froze. Not from fear—yet—but from the realization that the castle had heard every word.

And it was responding.

I stepped back to the circle, relit the center candle, and whispered the anchoring incantation again. This time, the parchment flared with silver-blue glyphs, then unfurled into a vivid leyline map across the room.

But the lines weren’t static. They pulsed.

The center one—tied to the seal beneath the West Tower—glowed brightest. And it was no longer dormant. It was reaching.

The castle wasn’t just bleeding magic.

It was feeding.

On me.

I pressed trembling fingers to the nearest glowing thread, sending out a soft pulse of inquiry. The magic met mine instantly, too eagerly. I saw flashes—stone vaults, cold sigils, the shimmering mirror with no reflection.

And in the center of it all—

Theron.

Watching. Waiting. Guarding something too old and too angry to stay locked much longer.

I pulled back sharply, heart racing.

This wasn’t decay. It was transformation.

Someone—something—was warping the castle’s leylines from within. And it wasn’t just letting me in.

It was calling me.

By name.

The castle remembered my blood. My magic.

And it was no longer content to whisper.

It was preparing to speak.