Page 47 of Fade With Me

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that,” I mumbled, my mind struggling to catch up.

He extended his hand to me. “You will,” he said with a grin. “It’s pretty useful—well, when I can actually do it, anyway. Can’t exactly go around fading in front of mortals. They’dfreakout.” His expression shifted to one of amusement. “Can you imagine?”

As we walked inside, the familiar scent of cedar and pine filled the air, sharp and fresh, like the forest itself had followed us in. The house was pristine. Everything in its place, with no dust, no clutter, just an almost clinical order. The hardwood floors gleamed under the soft light of a single lamp in the corner, casting long shadows on the walls lined with polished wood and minimalist décor.

I raised a brow, my gaze sweeping the room. “You could perform surgery in here,” I said, my voice tinged with genuine surprise. “Do you even live here?” I took in the immaculate space, my eyes lingering on every detail. “This place is so clean, you could eatoff the floor.”

He shut the door behind us with a soft click, then threw his hand up in an offhand shrug. “I like things clean. So sue me.”

I stood frozen, unwilling to touch anything. Zeke chuckled at my reluctance, sidling up beside me, his posture relaxed but playful. Without missing a beat, he strolled over to a bookshelf and, with a sweeping motion of his arm, sent half the books tumbling to the floor with a thunderous boom.

I gasped, my eyes widening as the heavy volumes hit the ground with a resounding thud. The noise jolted me. But Zeke? He only wiggled his eyebrows, unfazed, and snapped his fingers. In an instant, the books sprang back into place, aligning themselves neatly as if they’d never been disturbed at all.

My jaw went slack. “I could really use that ability,” I said, the awe slipping out before I could reel it in.

He waved his hand casually, the motion effortless. “See? No worries. You can ‘mess up’ anything you’d like, and I’ll fix it.”

He then led me into his dining room, where, with a flick of his wrist, a mountain of papers and research materials appeared as if conjured from thin air.

“So, this is everything I’ve gathered so far,” he said, surveying the sprawling mess of documents. “Feel free to look through whatever you like, but fair warning—most of it’s in Latin.”

I made a show of being unimpressed, snapping my fingers with exaggerated flair. “Dang, left my Latin translator in my other purse.”

A sly smirk played at the corners of his mouth as he smoothly pulled out my chair, his movements deliberate, with an easy, fluid grace. “Lucky for you,” he said, “I speak Latin. Consider me at your service.”

“How convenient,” I muttered, rolling my eyes. But as I sank into the chair, a question stirred within me, shifting the mood. “So...is everyone in our realm immortal?”

Zeke’s gaze flickered toward me as he lowered into his seat, his expression pensive. “For the most part, yes. Magic is bound to bloodlines. Anyone with even a hint of pure-blooded witch’s blood is immortal; all witches trace their ancestry to a pure-blood somewhere down the line,” he said evenly. “But not all immortals are equal.” His tone grew flat, almost clinical. “The purer the bloodline, the greater the power.”

He reclined slightly, his eyes clouding over as if carefully selecting his next words. “Pure-blood witches are rare, also known as sorcerers or sorceresses, and their magic is raw, instinctive, overwhelmingly potent. Most witches spend years studying, practicing, and mastering spells through trial and error. But pure-bloods are different. Their power isn’t something they need to learn; it’s ingrained in them, channeled by a deep, natural source.”

His focus sharpened, locking onto mine. “For me, that source is the weather. I draw my strength from the turbulence and energy of storms.”

I took a moment to absorb the information, my mind racing with the ramifications. “So, does that mean you need a storm to be present to fully access your magic?” I asked, unable to silence the questions swirling in my head.

His face broke into a gentle smile, and a low, husky laugh escaped his lips. “No. I don’t need thunder to summon my power. The storm is a part of me, a constant presence I can tap into whenever I need it.”

A tremor, both unsettling and fascinating, whispered through me as the true extent of Zeke’s abilities sank in. But it also sparked a new question, one that had been lingering in the back of my mind. “What about me?” I asked, my voice soft as a breath. “What do I channel to harness my power?”

His gaze grew intense, as though he were calibrating his words before releasing them. “You don’t just have pure blood,” he said, his eyes tracing my face with a mixture of awe and reverence. “You carry something older—the blood of the ancients.” His voice deepened, filled with quiet wonder. “Your control is effortless. While others rely on incantations, rituals, or external sources to channel power, you summon it with nothing more than a thought. Your destruction isn’t a byproduct of magic; it’s an extension of your will. And youhave immense healing. Your body repairs itself almost instantaneously, as if the very essence of life bends to your command.”

The mention of the ancients sent a shockwave through me. A rush of excitement bloomed within, tempered by a healthy dose of skepticism. The idea that I could wield magic with merely a thought was both thrilling and unnerving, especially since I had no powers to speak of…or so I believed. But as I listened to Zeke’s words, something inside me stirred. It was as though a long-dormant spark had been fanned into a flame, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that this power, this legacy, was mine to claim.

It felt…right.

He leaned forward, his eyes burning with intensity. “Your power justis,” he said, the notion hanging in the air like an unspoken promise. “It’s a part of you—a fundamental aspect of your being. You don’t need to learn spells or call upon the skies. All you have to do is tap into the depths of your own potential.”

What did it mean to possess this kind of power? And what were the true limits of my abilities?

After hours of poring over the ancient texts and dusty tomes, frustration was beginning to set in. “There’snothing here about breaking the curse without separating the rings. This is starting to feel impossible.”

Then, in a flash of desperation, something ridiculous sparked in my brain. I bolted upright. “We could cut off my finger!”

Zeke’s expression hardened, disbelief written across his face. “We arenotdoing that,” he said firmly, his voice steady but incredulous. “That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard.”

He adjusted his cuffs, avoiding my eyes. “Besides, I may or may not have already considered it. Let’s just say…it’s not a viable option.”

My jaw dropped. “You wereactuallyconsidering cutting my finger off?!”

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