Page 64 of Poison Sun

His usually fiery eyes are so soft and vulnerable that I wish I could give him a huge hug.

“Where’s she now?” I ask, fearing the worst.

“She became violent. Not just with herself, but toward me and my dad, too.” He looks away, the muscles in his jaw clenching as he battles with his emotions. “It was terrifying. We tried to fix her with a healing spell, but it made her worse. We ended up having to put her in an institution. She’s there now, sedated most of the time. It’s the only way to keep her—and us—safe.”

My heart aches for him—for the boy who witnessed his mother transform into someone unrecognizable. “That’s horrible,” I finally say, and then I repeat, “I’m sorry.”

Without thinking about it, I touch his arm in a small gesture of comfort.

He leans into it, in a silent plea for acceptance and connection. “What happened to her was my fault,” he continues. “It’s why I distanced myself from magic.”

I nod, understanding his fear all too well. The power we wield comes with risks—with consequences that can sometimes be too much to bear. I try to use my magic to make things better, but over the years, I’ve learned it doesn’t always work the way I want.

“Magic is a part of us.” I pause before continuing, wanting to truly get through to him. “But it doesn’t define us. We decide how we use it. We decide how we let it shape our lives. The only way we can do that is with practice—so we can control it without letting it control us.”

He looks at me then, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “You make it sound so simple.”

“Magic is anything but simple,” I say with a small smile. “And I’m sorry you witnessed and experienced so many bad parts of it, and practically none of the good.”

“I’m sorry about that, too.”

We walk in silence for a few minutes, although it’s a comfortable silence—not the tense one from before.

After a few moments, he speaks again.

“You know, back at the bridge with the Kobold, the story about my mother was the secret I almost shared,” he says.

“I thought you were going to give him the book?” I ask.

“It crossed my mind,” he admits. “That book contains the spell I used to curse my mother. I hate that book. Yes, I started reaching for it, but I don’t think I could have done it. Not when I know how important it is to you. I was about to share my secret, but you gave him the flask before I had a chance.”

“It’s fine,” I say. “We don’t need the flask.”

It’s a lie. I don’t know if we’ll need the flask or not, but it’s pointless to sit around wishing things were different. We have to focus on the future, and what we can change—not on the past, which is already written in stone.

“You seemed pretty deep in thought before handing it over,” he says. “Were you going to tell the Kobold about you and your sisters?”

I stop walking mid-step, my heart jumping into my throat.

He knows about me and my sisters.

He knows we’re blood witches.

How? Why didn’t he say anything before? And why’s he acting so calm about it?

“I’m sure it would have been hard,” he continues before I can formulate a response. “Having to relive that night in front of that monster. But I appreciate you sharing it with me. It means a lot.”

Suddenly, I can breathe again.

Blaze wasn’t referring to me and my sisters being blood witches.

He was referring to the story I just told him. The one about the night my parents were killed.

Crisis averted.

For now.

“I was thinking about it,” I lie, scrambling to think of something that might make sense about why I offered the flask instead. “But there has to be a reason why the Kobold wants to know secrets, other than the fact that he enjoys hearing them. And who knows if he might be able to use our secrets against us someday? So, I gave him the flask. It felt safer. I can’t explain it, but it just did.”

---