The Last Spell 48.2

Cyrin sat down heavily on the couch Kasumi had vacated, burying their face in their hands. Something in them wanted to scream. He bit it back, shoving it down where all the other invisible fractures in their composure had gone, dangerously nearing a breaking point.

“I know this isn’t a great time,” Mireya said, from out of nowhere. “But you’re probably going to want the context for what you heard about yourself on the recording. How you’re… wanted.”

Cyrin blinked, slowly pulling their hands away from their face to see her turning the wheel, but she wasn’t looking out the windshield. Instead, she was watching them sadly.

“At least I’m wanted somewhere,” they muttered.

Mireya didn’t smile. “Cyrin, when I say they want you, I mean they want you in the exact same way Sparrow wanted you three years ago.”

Cyrin stared at her, waiting for the moment she softened the news in some way. He’d take a chuckle if he couldn’t get a laugh. But the longer he waited, the more evident it was that she was fully serious.

It wasn’t something he liked to see on her.

“Your friend, these Dynastics…” he started. “They shouldn’t know who I am.”

“I don’t know how they do,” Mireya said. “But they know— or think they know— a lot more than just that. They know about the Fading, for starters.”

Could he keep nothing to himself? That should’ve been impossible, after the dozens of NDAs his father had forced people to sign. Cyrin’s head was buzzing. He closed his eyes briefly in a silent prayer for it to stop.

“They also…” Mireya paused. “You might laugh.”

“I can’t promise I won’t.”

“They believe you’re a Major Mage.”

It was true that under different circumstances, the thought could have amused them. But all they could remember was a blinding light, a radiant white raging through them. Their palms burning, like they’d cupped a star in their hands. Their skin aching with power they couldn’t contain.

“And because of that, they’ve got their eye on you.” Mireya swallowed. “To be their next battlemage.”

This time, Cyrin did laugh— although it quickly turned into a scoff as he sat up, meeting Mireya’s gaze more directly. “Me? They want to make a soldier out of me?”

“They managed it with Dante.” Mireya’s words were tight, and with a start, he saw she was clenching her jaw. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible with him either.”

“Well, who is he? Because all I know him as is a killer and a kidnapper.” Cyrin didn’t realize he was frustrated until the words left his mouth, and suddenly, he couldn’t ignore that anymore. The buzzing in his ears was sharper now, gaining a hissing edge. “I thought we didn’t keep things from each other.”

Something flashed over Mireya’s face, and it wasn’t quite hurt or fear. It looked a lot closer to dread.

“He’s from my past,” Mireya said slowly. “Centuries before I met you. He had a rebel’s soul too. I thought he was dead, because I thought— I thought I killed him. But he found a way to live, similar to how I did. In that time… they got to him. I never mentioned him because I knew you wouldn’t like what he did.”

Cyrin forced himself to take a deep breath that did nothing for him. “And what is that?”

“He created the Fading, Cyrin.” Mireya’s voice was ragged with pain. “And I helped him.”

It wasn’t enough to will the buzzing to not crackle into static. It happened anyway. Cyrin’s vision was hazy too as he stared at Mireya, in search of a lie he couldn’t find.

“What?” he breathed.

“Neither of us meant to.” Mireya had never looked so small. Her head was lowered, and her arms were pressed against her sides, as if she were trying to fold into herself. “They came to Dante for his replication magic. We were told the spell he was propagating would convince people that peaceful surrender was the solution— we didn’t know we were lied to. When we found out, he begged me to kill him. He thought that would end the Fading.”

But it didn’t end. Snapshots of locked doors, of lone wolves, of operatic arias in a soprano’s voice flickered over the screen in his head.

“There was no way to know the chain reaction it would set off. There was no way to know how badly he would hurt you one day.”

He couldn’t be falling apart here. Not right now. But damn it, there were fifteen different things Cyrin wanted to cry over and they were all catching up to him.

“But he did, and I was afraid to tell you. Your anger would’ve been righteous, but I didn’t know how to handle it if it was directed at someone I loved. All this time, I’ve been struggling with how the world sees him as a villain, without knowing anything about who he was, the light he brought to others, the sacrifice he made.” Mireya choked up. “And now he’s changed, and—and maybe the world’s been right all along.”

Cyrin had to say something, or the noise in their head was going to drown them out. They couldn’t sink into that again. If they let that happen, they didn’t know if they could ever get out.

“I’m sorry that the Houses have got their teeth in him.” They swallowed. “For both our sakes, I hope he’s still more than just a weapon.”

Mireya blinked, taken aback. “You can be angrier than that.”

“I could.” Cyrin took a deep breath, shaking their head as a shiver rippled through them. “But Mireya, I can’t— I can’t shove you away like that. I can’t lose you too.”

Mireya fell quiet for a few seconds. Even though they were struggling to keep her in focus, they saw the slump of her shoulders.

“We can get Clarity back,” she said faintly at least, and Cyrin heard— no, they felt— the weight of the unspoken if she's even alive. “I’m sure we can. She just needs a push to get away from him.”

Cyrin tried to laugh, but it didn’t come out sounding that way. It was more frantic, strangled. The salt on their lips was an unexpected taste.

“What?” Mireya asked, bewildered.

“It’s not just about Sparrow.” Their voice hitched. “She manipulated me, Mireya.”

Mireya was silent again. Their heart was scared prey, trying to leap out of their chest. If she didn’t believe them, Cyrin was sure something physical would snap inside them.

“Yeah,” Mireya admitted quietly. “She probably did.”

“No. No, I don’t mean probably. She—”

Saints, how were they going to get through it if they couldn’t even say it out loud?

“She put a spell on me.” Cyrin wasn’t sure what they were looking at anymore, or how long ago they’d started crying, but the tears were undeniable now. “She used Rationale to have me think I was in love with her. All the time I was at war with myself, trying to figure out what I really felt, thinking something was wrong with me— that was her. She put me through that.”

The blur of Mireya had taken a step closer. “But her Hollow…?”

“It’s Salve. She lied about that.” Cyrin shuddered, fists clenching in his lap. “She didn’t tell us she was Oathbound to Sparrow, either.”

Suddenly Mireya was sitting next to him, and there were arms around his shoulders. Without thinking, Cyrin leaned into her support as she held him like if she just hugged him tight enough, all of this weight would disappear.

“Saints, she—” Mireya seethed, a hiss forming in her throat. “She’ll have to answer to me if I see her again.”

“I want to be angry about it.” Cyrin could hardly get the words out— could hardly hear them over the static. “But I can’t.”

“Of course you can’t,” Mireya murmured, her tone suddenly too knowing. “You think you deserve everything that happens to you, don’t you?”

Her words were less of a knife and more of a needle; it surprised him more than it stung him. Something in Cyrin was itching to deny it, or better yet, to say he knew it. He’d gotten away with everything he’d done, with hardly any consequences. He’d outlived the end of his story too many times for it to be fair to anyone else. He’d sentenced Shane to the same bitter life that followed that survival, writing that fate in innocent blood. He’d failed to keep a promise to protect Autumn, the only good deed he thought he could hold himself to. And he’d fully meant to kill Sparrow, forgetting, in the heat of the moment, that Clarity’s own life was tied to his by oath.

Maybe this was how the universe worked, for everything to come crashing down on him now. Prayers and payments would stop nothing. Even settling his debt to Shane meant more blood, and that would follow him too.

“Sometimes I feel more like a funeral than a person.” Cyrin couldn’t remember making the decision to speak. It was the only reason he knew he was at his most honest. “A pyre, where things go to burn.”

Mireya’s hold loosened slightly, and he knew he’d confused her.

“What do you mean?” she whispered.

“There’s something wrong with me.” Cyrin took a deep breath, pulling away. “I don’t know what it is—whether it’s been a flaw in my design from the start, or it’s something that happened to me long ago— but it’s there. I’ve been thinking it’s all in my head, but now… I…”

They had to show her. They couldn’t be the only one to know this.

Swallowing, Cyrin slowly started to roll up the sleeves of their jacket.

They’d stared at their arms for what could’ve been hours in the privacy of their room last night, wondering if what they saw would fade. But nothing had changed. The scars of white light still crept up their skin, stretching over their veins from wrist to elbow like how lightning seared against the sky. The sight didn’t sicken them, unlike the gold gleam of rotten magic that had been there this time a day ago. Instead, it sent their heart fluttering with fear.

Cyrin hated hearing the shocked intake of breath Mireya sucked through her teeth.

“Cyrin,” Mireya said quietly. “What is this?”

“I don’t know.” Cyrin closed their eyes. “I noticed it after I caught the meteorite. It doesn’t hurt or anything, it just… glows.”

Mireya grabbed their wrists, and they could feel her hands shaking.

“I’ve seen a lot,” she said, voice slow and wavering. “But I’ve never seen anything like this.”

They’d feared she would say that. Cyrin pressed their lips together, daring to reopen their eyes.

“I don’t know if I should say anything,” they murmured. “Shane might have noticed something, but I don’t think he actually saw it. Until I understand it… I think the fewer people know, the better.”

Mireya hesitated. “You think this has anything to do with what the Dynastics believe?”

“I don’t have any idea what to think, Mireya.” A shiver racked Cyrin’s shoulders. “Only that I don’t want this right now.”

Mireya slowly let go of him, but kept studying his arms. It wasn’t alarm on her face anymore, he realized. Instead, it was a sort of reverent awe.

“If there’s anything this adventure has taught me,” she said, “it’s that magic is stranger than I thought. Too lawless to be a science, too structured to be an art. Whichever way you try to rationalize with it, you’ll still have more questions than answers.”

“And that means?” Cyrin found himself holding his breath at the end of the question.

Mireya looked back up, her dark eyes meeting his. Something like a smile tugged at her lips.

“It means,” she started, “that you, Cyrin Bridger, are a question. A wonderful, incredible question. And I’m staying right beside you for the answers. No matter what they hold.”