Page 167 of Moonlit Fate

“Stronger,” I murmured as I walked, imagining the shields thickening, becoming more solid and impenetrable with each step. There was a rhythm to it, the practice merging with my pace, my heartbeat, until I could almost see the shimmer walls.

Damn it. The shields were there, but they still felt flimsy, too easily swayed. I needed structure, something concrete to hold them up.

My father’s office came to mind, the order of it, the way he filed everything from documents to artifacts. With that clarity came the sharp jab of loss, and my shields wavered.

“Stop,” I ordered myself, refusing to let the grief breach the barriers. If I wanted this to work, I had to disconnect from those feelings. I needed a neutral memory, a place without the sting of recent sorrow.

The kitchen. Yes, that could work.

I recalled the manor’s kitchen and its smells and sounds. The staff who moved like parts of a clockwork, each knowing their role. The counters always gleamed. Behind the cooks, a wall of ingredients stood at the ready, a perfect system of organization. I clung to that image, using it as a blueprint for my mental defenses.

“Shelves,” I whispered, picturing them lining the walls of my mind. “Labels. Compartments.”

The pain eased as I focused. I could almost feel the shelves solidifying, the disorder of my thoughts being sorted neatly into place. It was working. My magic hummed in agreement, the raw energy finding channels through the structure I imposed.

I opened my eyes and reinforced the visualization as I went.

My footsteps grew more confident as I continued down the path. The sense of control was empowering, a small victory in a sea of battles yet to be fought.

In my mind, I slid a jar of sugar crystals onto the shelf, each granule sparkling like a memory from my childhood. The laughter, the games, every sweet memory sealed inside with a soft pop of the lid closing.

“Perfect,” I murmured, turning to the next jar that contained a swirl of golden honey, thick and slow-moving. It glimmered with the light of a first love, the rush of warmth that had once bloomed. I placed it gently beside the sugar, a treasure among treasures.

Fingers shaking slightly, I reached for the bitter herbs. They dangled from the rafters, their scent sharp and unforgiving. Each leaf was a hurt, a worry, an anxiety I carried. The drying process had taken the edge off, but the bite remained.

“You don’t control me anymore,” I said, more to convince myself than anything else.

The dusty bag of cayenne pepper came next. It crinkled as I set it down, the sound echoing a betrayal’s fiery sting. I didn’t linger on it, nor on the strong coffee grounds that represented days and nights of intense focus and fatigue.

A smile touched my lips as I handled the jug of fresh milk, feeling its promise of purity and simple joys. It brought back memories of innocence, of a time when choices were easy and laughter came quick. That carton found its place among the other containers, neatly labeled and ordered.

Finally, I approached the icebox. Its door opened with a creak, the cold seeping out and wrapping around me like a ghostly embrace. I hesitated, then steeled myself, and placed the blocks of ice carefully inside. These were the worst of my memories, frozen not to forget but to contain. I could still feel the chill of them, but they were under lock and key now.

“Stay there,” I commanded, my breath misting in the air. “I’ll deal with you on my terms.”

It was all there, my life organized and compartmentalized. With each memory stored away, I was lighter, more in command.

I was sorting through the last of my memories, the jars clinking softly as I placed them on the shelves in my mind. The control was perceptible, a foreign sensation I welcomed. My magic no longer felt like a wild river but more like streams I could navigate and direct. It was working, I was actually doing it.

The power settled within me. Each jar snapped into place with a satisfying click, each emotion compartmentalized.

Then, without warning, that sense of calm shattered. My steps faltered as a shadow loomed ahead on the path. Caius stood there, an unmovable mountain of dark intent, blocking my way.

“Fuck,” I cursed. This wasn’t just fear, it was something primal, something that knew death was staring it right in the face.

“Lost, little alpha?” His voice slithered through the air, cold and taunting.

“Get out of my way, Caius,” I said, summoning every ounce I possessed. My hands twitched at my sides, itching to summon the water. Would it be enough against him?

The silence between us snapped like a twig underfoot as Caius unleashed a torrent of dark energy. I jerked to the side, feeling the whoosh of his power arcing toward where I’d just stood. I threw my hands forward, pushing out a haphazard shield of water that barely managed to deflect his next assault.

“Is that all you’ve got?” he sneered as his hands moved in a relentless rhythm, casting spells with lethal precision.

Gritting my teeth, I tried to call on the calm of my mental cabinets, but panic was a wildfire in my veins. My response was a desperate splash of energy, more instinct than skill, that fizzled against the onslaught of Caius’s magic.

I dodged another strike that splintered a tree behind me. I was dancing on a knife-edge, reacting rather than acting, every move costing me dearly.

The ground tilted. I wasn’t just fighting Caius, I was fighting to keep my own powers from turning wild. He was a force of nature, his control absolute, while I was still the tempest-tossed sea, unpredictable and dangerous.

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