Page 226 of Emylia

“Because he’d see right through me,” I said, tossing a new shirt over my head. “There is no way I’d pull it off. ButMiss Goody Two Shoes?” I shot her a pointed look. “He wouldn’t suspect a thing.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not going to poison him, are you?”

I laughed—harder than I had all day. “Gods, no. Just giving him something to help him sleep. Honestly, we’ll be doing him a favor.”

She rolled her eyes but smirked. “You’re chaos.”

“And you love it.” A devious smirk lifted the corner of my mouth. “I’ll meet you at the forge at midnight,” I said, grabbing the satchel from beside the bed. “That should give it enough time to kick in.”

“I don’t love this idea.”

“You don’t have to,” I said, stepping toward the door with a wicked grin. “You just have to trust me.”

ChapterForty-Nine

Complete darkness cloaked the sky, stars scattered across its vast expanse like paint splatters on black velvet.

I didn’t dare light a lantern until I was safely inside the forge—and even then, I only lit one. I felt bad enough for sneaking out of bed without Maalikai, leaving him in an involuntary stupor. If anyone else came looking for me, the glow would be a dead giveaway and this would all be for nothing.

I eased the heavy wooden door open, silently thanking the Gods it didn’t groan.

The forge smelled of soot and cinnamon—an odd mix, but fitting. The building next to the forge was where my father once baked bread. At dawn he baked and at dusk he forged weapons.

I used to think it was just a quirk. Now I wondered if it had been deliberate. A quiet rebellion. A backup plan. The bakery, the forge, the cellar lined with preserves—his way of making us self-sufficient. His way of keepingmesafe, if it ever came to that.

And now it had.

The forge breathed with heat—the kind that seeped into your skin and made you forget the world outside. Emberlight danced across stone walls, flickering like forgotten memories.

I took a deep breath, then emptied my bag onto the stone table.

Red clay spilled out with a heavy thump—thick, wet, and glistening faintly in the firelight. I’d gathered it from the place I found Evie earlier today, dug from the blood-rich earth and wrapped in soaked cloth to keep it pliable.

I’d arrived at the forge before Evie on purpose. Because if I failed, I didn’t want an audience. And if something went wrong—if my magik snapped wild and uncontrollable—I needed her nowhere near the blast zone.

I split the clay in two with a slow, steady breath. This wasn’t like my past attempts—no reckless testing, no aimless flaring of power. This time, I had intent.

Purpose.

I wasn’t just calling the elements—I was commanding them.

I pressed my palms to the first lump, narrowing my focus to a single thread of power, and pulled. Earth magik surged up through my hands—slow and deliberate—drawn not by force, but by permission.

Power bled into my palms like molten stone. The clay began to shift—warping, coiling, reshaping—responding to the force of what I needed it to become.

Not just a mold.

A vessel.

A promise sealed in mud and magik.

Before my eyes, it formed into a perfect cylinder, except for an opening at the top where molten liquid could be poured in.

A clean, seamless line split the center—where the two halves would be torn open.

But not yet.

If I cracked it now, I’d ruin everything.

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