I’m still grinning like an idiot when the mini-whirlwind dissipates. Princess Paws yowls from the bedroom, and when I glance over I can see her in the doorway, ears flattened against her head as she stares at with the distinct disdain only cats can muster.
"Sorry, girl. Mama’s still trying to figure this out."
My hands tingle with residual energy. Not exhaustion, not the drained feeling that other students describe after casting and depleting so of their internal mana. It’s just a feeling of... I don’t know.
Awareness.
Like my skin rembers what it touched.
I need to try again. Just to be sure.
This ti, I close my eyes and search for the sensation of recognition. Not resonance—not yet. No, I’m looking for the mont when understanding clicks into place and the essence of sothing becos truth. Not air this ti. Sothing simpler. Light.
What is light, at its core? Not just science. Not photons or wavelengths. I’m looking for sothing... more.
Revelation. Clarity.
The banisher of shadows.
The revealer of truth.
The resonance cos slower this ti, a faint hum beneath my consciousness. When I open my eyes, a dim glow surrounds my fingertips—not bright enough to read by, but unmistakably there.
"Holy shit," I breathe, watching the soft luminescence fade. "I’m not broken."
I’m not failing at magic; I’ve been trying to speak the wrong language. While everyone else deals with glyphs—the magical equivalent of training wheels—I’m sohow connecting directly to the source code.
As if soone handed a tutorial to hack my way into the system.
Thanks, Professor Tiny. You’re the fucking best.
Maybe I should get him a gift card for a local coffeeshop.
Or so heels.
Whatever.
The euphoria bubbles up like champagne, and I hop into a ridiculous little shimmy dance around the living room. Princess Paws watches with feline judgnt.
"Don’t look at like that." I wiggle like a witch with Wi-Fi. And what do witches with Wi-Fi watch? A lot of dancing music videos. Trust ; I’d know. Penelope does it all the ti. "This is a breakthrough mont."
A yodel-adjacent ow.
Ignoring her inability to appreciate my victory, I pop it, drop it, lock it, and fall to the floor when my ankle gives out.
Okay. So maybe dancing isn’t really my thing, and Princess Kitty over there has a point.
Then reality crashes back like a bucket of ice water, ruining the fun of my little witchy glow-up. This is why I’m a Catalyst. This different way of touching magic—connecting to runes instead of glyphs—is what makes the dragons and the Conclave so interested. Do they know?
If they find out...
Groaning, I fall back on the floor, letting my limbs rest wherever they flop. My ankle has a stabby kind of throb going on, the kind you forget about after a few minutes, only to realize so ti later you’re able to walk again.
Nothing serious, then.
More importantly, should I tell anyone? Logan? Penelope?
Well, let’s see. Logan’s mad at , and my apology sucks. So he’s out. Penelope’s out with her little goslings, so nope.
Later. I can tell them later.
For now, I should plot how I can practice enough to pass a standard magic user without revealing how I’m actually doing it.
A buzz from my phone interrupts my spiraling thoughts. My heart leaps into my throat—Logan? An apology? An acknowledgnt? Anything?
I snatch up the device, suddenly clumsy with anticipation.
[LOGAN: New wards going up today.]
I stare at the text. Read it twice. That’s it? No "got your apology" or "we need to talk" or even a perfunctory thumbs-up emoji?
An all-about-business text. As if our fight never happened. As if I never apologized.
I an, I know it was only two words, but they are arguably the most important words.
The bubble of happiness my breakthrough breathed into my chest deflates like it never existed.
"New wards going up today," I mutter, mimicking his deep voice as I grimace at the ceiling. "Could’ve at least asked first."
Logan knows. Knows! Wards are my specialty. Before Thornhaven, before discovering I’m a Catalyst or whatever, I was damn good at my job. I designed security systems to keep the most determined supernatural threats at bay.
And now he’s just... hiring soone else? Without even checking if I’d want to do it?
"Fine," I snap to the empty room. "Let him pay double for trash installation. See if I care when his subpar wards get breached by the first determined asshole to co along. Fuck you, Sergeant Logan Alphahole."
Princess Paws jumps onto my chest, purring as she kneads her little paws against . She’s already forgiven for the baby cyclone, which ans she’s a much better partner than Sir Growls-a-Lot.
I stroke her soft fur, still stewing. It’s not like it’s about the money. He can waste his money and turn into a hobo for all I care. It’s about my domain. The one area of magic in which I excel.
Dismissing my skills feels like a deeper rejection than walking out after our fight.
Screw Aloofus Maximus and his stupid pheromones.
A sharp knock at the door yanks out of my first-class sulk, but I dive right back in like a pro.
How is the installation team already here? Maybe he didn’t bother to text until they were on their way. Sounds like the exact kind of douchebaggery the Great Emotional Glacier would pull.
And now I get to watch strangers butcher what should have been my job.
I stomp to the door, not bothering to hide my annoyance. I yank it open, ready to give the contractors my most withering stare—
Logan fills the doorway, his imposing fra tense. His jaw is set and his green eyes dart everywhere except at . No flirtatious smile, no raised eyebrow, no swank or swagger. He looks more awkward than I’ve ever seen him.
And he’s holding a cardboard box.
It better not hold another cat, I swear to whatever gods might exist—
He thrusts it into my arms.
Definitely another fucking cat. I just know it.
But it’s heavy, and there’s a strangely familiar clink as I shift its weight in my arms.
I stare at him, then at the box.
Not a cat, then... maybe.
Logan clears his throat. "Here’s your wards."
I blink. "...My what?"
"The ones to install." His gaze flickers past to the apartnt, then back to my face. "For the apartnt."
I blink again.
Then a few more tis for good asure.
He never intended to hire soone else. He expected to do it all along. Trusted to.
My heart does a traitorous little flip, jumping from fuck Stonewall Alpha to oh my God, he’s the best boyfriend ever, let’s jump on his dick in about one-tenth of a millisecond. The box suddenly feels lighter in my arms, despite the weight of what must be two dozen high-quality wardstones nestled inside.
Give or take one.
I’m pretty good at estimating wardstones by weight. We like uniformity.
"So I’m your unpaid magical contractor now?" I snark, but there’s no real heat in it. I’m already ntally calculating placent points. It all depends on what he’s brought .
"... you could say that."
Spinning on my heel, I set the box onto the entry table, fighting the urge to do a little tippity-tap as I peer inside.
My breath catches.
These aren’t standard-issue security wardstones, generally anywhere from third to fourth generation Sentinels. They’re premium Aegis wardstones, each one perfectly tuned and calibrated for high-resonance frequency. They cost a baby fortune and I love them so much. They’re my babies now. Mine.
Logan shifts his weight, still lingering in the doorway. He clears his throat again. "You going to invite in? To... supervise?"
The request hangs between us, loaded with everything we’re not saying. This isn’t just about wards. This is an olive branch—an awkward, Logan-style olive branch, but still.
Regretfully pulling my attention from my shiny new babies, I clear my throat. "Since when do you need an invitation?"
Smooth. Totally aweso at showing I’m an adult capable of apologizing and taking responsibility for my actions.
Thankfully, Logan’s as emotionally immature as I am, because he rubs at his nose and grins. "Since always?"
"Shut up and co inside."
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