Page 94 of Foresyth Conservatory
“I don’t think that. What happened was as much my decision as yours.”
Her face softened, and she offered me a small smile. “I’m glad you feel that way.” Her fingers lingered on the bandage, adjusting it with care. “Aspen and I really like you. Even if you have a habit of getting yourself hurt.”
I scoffed, easing back onto the bed with my uninjured shoulder. “I think I need to rest,” I murmured, feeling a genuine wave of exhaustion.
“You’re really not going to tell me what happened?” she pressed, her brow arched, though there was a hint of hurt in her voice.
“A bird attacked me,” I offered. It wasn’t far from the truth. Would she even know of the Grifferact if I had told her? “Isn’t there a saying about that being good luck?”
She laughed softly, though I could tell my answer didn’t satisfy her. Still, if she had her secrets, then I deserved to keep mine.
“Maybe you’ll tell me when you’re feeling better. Rest up. See you at Circle.” She tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear before leaving. It was a simple gesture, but one that held a quiet intimacy I wasn’t ready to acknowledge.
I closed my eyes, fighting off sleep, and waited for the sound of her footsteps to fade from the room.
*
I opened my eyes, still groggy from the medicine, though the pain in my shoulder had dulled to a manageable throb. I pulled my bag from beneath my pillow, reaching for the case. Trying to pry it open, I quickly realized it was locked by a mechanism I couldn’t decipher. Sitting up for a better look, I held it in the dim light of my room, catching my faint reflection on its surface. It had been a while since I’d really looked at myself, and the person staring back was almost unfamiliar. Her eyes glinted with a fierce, untamed intensity I barely recognized.
Tracing a finger over the case’s engraved markings, I saw more runes, and a name, faint but discernible. It started with a “B.” I exhaled a warm breath over the metal and polished it with my bedsheet until the letters were clearer.
Blackburne.
It was my name.
I shook, rattled, and even banged the case against my desk in frustration, but it wouldn’t open. Groaning, I racked my brain for a solution. Maybe I could hammer it open or apply enough weight. But then, a more logical thought cut through my frustration. The doors I’d encountered in the tunnels had reacted to me instinctively, opening at the presence of my blood, as if they were attuned to something unique about me. A biomarker.
Blood magick.The phrase echoed in my mind, and instinctively, I knew what to do. I reached up to my fresh cut and peeled back the bandages. I hissed as I pressed my fingers to the opening, coating them in a slick of blood. I smeared a few drops onto the box, watching as a soft wisp of smoke rose, as if the blood had triggered a reaction within the metal.
With a satisfying click, the case unlocked.
I opened it eagerly, and what I found made my heart lurch.
Inside were three small notebooks, each marked with the missing years I had long searched for, along with multiple pieces of parchment. The handwriting was unmistakably my father’s.
These were his missing journals.
But as I skimmed the entries, I realized they weren’t travel logs as I’d assumed. They weren’t research notes about his time abroad as I had imagined. In the corner of one page, he’d written:Circle, March 10th, 1893.
My pulse quickened as I unfurled the white parchment. But as I read the letter addressed to Julian, I stifled a gasp, pressing my nails to my teeth and biting until I tasted blood.
Julian, my son,
I hope you never have to read this. But if you do, it means I am dead, and I owe you the truth. No flourishes, no excuses, just the facts:
1. I was desperately in love with your mother.
2.I was consumed by blood magick.
3.These two facts are gravely linked.
When I came to Foresyth, I was newly graduated, convinced of my brilliance, eager to uncover the truth of magick—if it was real, and if its power could be harnessed. I believed myself to be a man bred on facts, not fiction, and that is precisely why the matter fascinated me so. My obsession led me toThe Book of Skorn, a version no one else seemed to possess. I think it was drawn to my blood.
In the Book, Aleric Khorvyn wrote of an emanation called Sophia, of rituals designed to “transcend the material form” and claim her true power. I believed I had discovered something extraordinary.
It was around that time that I was seeing your mother, Hamra.
She was unlike me in every way. She relied on instinct where I relied on theory. She, unlike me, was bound to no text or teacher, yet wielded knowledge as intrinsic as breathing. We were rivals first, then collaborators, then something more. I let her see every part of me, even the parts I should have kept hidden.
