Page 71 of Hand-Fasting and Other Hazards
“Well, well, well,” Wulfric drawled, eyes gleaming with amusement. “I swear, I’m always finding you two in a closet.”
Nia’s vision reddened. She barely registered him turning on his heel and walking away before her body moved, storming after him. But Elder Patrick blocked her path, his expression as impassive as ever as he gestured the opposite direction. “This way.”
Grinding her teeth, Nia let herself be led back toward the stage.
At its center, a circular stone platform lifted and slid apart with soundless precision. From within, the Lunaflor began to rise. The massive plant sat in an ornate pot, its thick, pale vines draping over the edges like frozen tendrils. Dormant petals—silver-white and smooth as porcelain—gleamed faintly under the full moonlight now spilling through the open dome in the ceiling overhead.
Elder Patrick stood beside her, his voice steady and clear. “When the moon reaches its peak, you will take the blessed mirror your father gives you and direct its light into the second, larger mirror across from you, there.”
Nia hadn’t even noticed the mirrors before, standing like sentries around the platform.
“And then?”
Patrick gave her a patient smile and handed her a piece of parchment. “You speak the invocation—‘Moonlight eternal, sacred and true, awaken the petals, magic renew. By silver’s glow and goddess’s light, let the bloom rise to celestial height.’ As you recite, you will reach inside yourself and pull a seed of your magic as an offering to the goddess and the flower. This energy will wake it, and the petals will unfurl.”
Nia took the parchment with trembling fingers. The words blurred. She blinked hard, once, twice—nothing. Her mind refused to catch up.
“And then I can go home?”
“Yes, my dear.” Patrick inclined his head. “You will be done.”
It sounded simple. Mirror, light, magic, home. But as Patrick stepped back and led Lochlan away, the pressure of it all—the supernatural community’s expectations, her father’s reveal and manipulation, her role in the ceremony—made it suddenly feel like she couldn’t breathe. With a wave of Patrick’s hands, the curtains swept open, the lights dimmed, and the world narrowed to just her and the moon.
Her father approached, exuding serene authority as he handed her a small mirror with a bow. “Blessed full moon, daughter.”
Around her, the gathered supernaturals echoed the words in eerie unison: “Blessed full moon.”
The sound reminded her everyone was watching as her father turned away, disappearing into the shadows as Elder Patrick cleared his throat expectantly. The mirror felt heavier than it should, its cool surface pressing into her palms as if it carried the weight of a thousand moons. Her legs were stiff as she shuffled into position, her eyes finding the mirror she was meant to direct the moonlight toward. The air felt thick, watchful, laden with unspoken expectation.
Mirror, light, magic, go home.
But her father’s spectacle was all she could see. Her mother’s journal told the true story: a tale of fear and desperation. Marrying Wulfric had cost her everything—her freedom, her life. She thought about that last entry, one she’d read countless times.
This may be the last time I write my own words.
It’s hard to think past my labored breaths. The damned dress they forced me into has hundreds of buttons. Each one felt like a lock closing.
They call him The Sword. The new Cabot heir. A man I’ve never met, only heard stories about. They say he is ruthless, powerful, obsessed with legacy—and that he’ll lead the witches out of hiding and into power.
This marriage is a cage meant to contain me and my magic, a transaction meant to bind my family’s power and position to his.
No one is coming to stop it. Maybe my mother would have tried, but she’s gone. I’m alone.
And I am afraid.
Now Nia stood in full view, a pawn in the same game her father was still playing. The realization woke something deep inside as her magic stirred, keen and restless.
Just do this and go home.
“Moonlight eternal, sacred and true—” Nia began to read. But the words didn’t carry the usual lilt of her spell work. There was no rhythm, no flow; they were just hollow syllables forced past clenched teeth. “—awaken the petals, magic renew.” She reached for a seed of magic, just a drop, just enough to coax the flower awake. “By silver’s glow and goddess’s light, let the bloom rise to celestial height.”
But instead of a drop, a torrent of her magic rushed free, flooding from Nia before she could stop it. Moonlight struck the small mirror she held, the light mingling with her power as it ricocheted between the mirrors before cascading into the dormant flower.
Gasps echoed around her as the Lunaflor rocked and swayed under the force.
She felt it wake.
Raw, erratic power rushed through her, tangling with her own magic as the Lunaflor shuddered, its dormant petals beginning to unfurl.
