Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 125422 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 627(@200wpm)___ 502(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125422 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 627(@200wpm)___ 502(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Rasmus works nearby, his voice a low hum as he mutters shamanic incantations. He moves along the edges of the library, casting charms to cleanse the space of lingering corruption. Pale smoke drifts upward from his hands, curling through the air like silvered thread.
I watch him for a moment. He’s focused, eyes narrowed, brow furrowed. The scars on his arms—old burns from Rangaista, etched like veins of memory—seem to gleam faintly under the light filtering through the windows. For all the sorrow I feel over the Magician, it can’t compare with how happy I am that Tuonen is back, and Rasmus too.
The silence between us is comfortable, or at least I want to think it is. I pick up another book and carefully wipe the dust from its cover.
“You’re staring at me,” Rasmus says suddenly, not looking up from his work.
I blink, startled. “I’m not.”
He glances over his shoulder, one brow raised, the faintest ghost of a smirk on his lips. “You were. Am I not performing the magic to your satisfaction?”
“I’m sure it will do,” I reply. “I was just…thinking.”
Rasmus straightens, letting the spell settle into the air like a gentle exhale. “Dangerous habit, that. Especially for you.”
I glare at him, though there’s no heat behind it. He teases me a lot like the newfound brother that he is. A real nuisance, if you ask me.
He walks toward me, brushing his hands clean on the edge of his cloak. For someone who has spent so much of his life walking the line between betrayal and redemption, Rasmus seems oddly steady now. As though he has finally found his place—or at least a purpose—in the aftermath of war. I envy that steadiness. I envy a lot of things these days.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks, crouching down across from me. His tone is light, casual, but I can see the careful way he watches me—like he already knows the answer.
I look away, focusing on a book in my lap. The leather is cracked, the lettering faded, but I trace it with my fingertips anyway. My throat feels tight.
“The Magician,” I say quietly.
Rasmus doesn’t respond right away. He waits, his gaze steady, letting the words settle in the space between us. Finally, he says, “You miss him.”
The admission comes before I can stop it. “Of course I miss him.”
I swallow hard, frustrated at how weak I sound. I haven’t allowed myself to say those words aloud until now. I haven’t let myself speak of him at all. I thought holding it inside would make it easier—that if I ignored the hollow ache in my chest, it might go away.
It hasn’t.
“I didn’t even know what he meant to me until he was gone,” I continue, my voice quiet. “He always knew. He knew, Rasmus. He acted like such an arrogant, maddening…oh, I don’t know what the hell he was, but he was something all right. And all the while, he knew this was his fate. And I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t change it.”
Rasmus’s expression softens, though he doesn’t say anything. What could he say? There is nothing to be said. I grip the book in my hands tighter, feeling the edges bite into my palms.
“I keep expecting him to step out from the shadows,” I go on, fully unloading now. “To smirk at me and say something cryptic. To ask if I’m still following the plan—his plan. Because he always had one, didn’t he?” My voice shakes, and I hate myself for it. “He always knew what to do, and I’m left here trying to make sense of it all.”
I stop speaking, realizing my hands are trembling. I set the book down carefully and press my palms flat against the floor, grounding myself. The Magician wouldn’t want me like this. He wouldn’t want me falling apart.
“He would say something infuriating, wouldn’t he?” Rasmus says gently, and when I look up at him, his lips are curved into a sad smile. “Something about fate and consequences and how it had to be this way and how everything is one big fucking tapestry. And he’d act like it didn’t matter that he was gone, as if his own sacrifice was inconsequential. As if it didn’t hurt you.”
I nod, my throat tightening again. Rasmus understands more than I thought he would. He’s been here before—been the one left behind, wrestling with grief and guilt. Maybe that’s why it’s easier to talk to him now, why I can say these things that I’ve held onto for the past week.
“He was infuriating,” I agree, forcing a weak laugh. “I hated how much he always seemed to know. How he never gave a straight answer. Made me want to scream sometimes.”
“And yet you loved him for it,” Rasmus says softly.
I freeze, my heart stuttering in my chest. The word hangs between us, sharp and undeniable. Love.