I half-expected some dramatic music to swell behind Atticus as the candles flickered, but alas, the only soundtrack I got was the faint dripping of water leaking from somewhere into the chamber, accompanied by Freya’s yawning like she was auditioning for the part of "bored goddess number three" in some tavern play.
"Loona," Atticus began, his voice low and crisp, as though each word had been ironed, folded, and pressed into neat little stacks before being handed to me. "Before we begin, I must emphasize something very important: if you are not feeling up to this—if your body is still weakened, if your mind is fatigued—feel free to back out if you wish."
I blinked up at him from where I sat on the floor. Back out? Me? Saints above, this was the first time in ages someone had offered me a choice instead of cramming a leash down my throat. The irony nearly made me laugh.
I tilted my head, gave him a wink, and said, "Oh, darling, you’re asking the wrong gutter rat. I thrive on poor decisions. Besides—" I tapped the side of my neck, where the Gutterbrand collar sat heavy and hot, "—backing out isn’t exactly an option when you’re already half a corpse in chains."
He didn’t laugh. Of course he didn’t. Atticus has all the sense of humor of a stone gargoyle, if the gargoyle had also attended ten years of higher education and never once gone outside to touch any grass.
Still, I shook my head firmly. "I’m fine. For now. Really. If anything, I should be thanking Brutus for the... donation earlier."
I allowed myself a sly smile, remembering the kiss, the stolen strength, the way his pulse had poured into me like fire into hollow veins.
Saints above, I was going to have to thank him properly later. Maybe with words. Maybe with my tongue. Possibly both.
Atticus adjusted his glasses again, his expression unreadable. "Very well. Then we proceed."
He produced a notebook.
And not just any notebook. No, this thing looked like it had been stitched together from the flayed hides of scholars who had dared to make a typo.
Its cover was battered, its edges frayed, but oh, the way he cradled it—like it was a holy relic, like it had personally whispered the secrets of creation into his ear.
From behind his back he produced a pen, long and narrow, and the click of its nib snapping into place echoed through the chamber like a dagger unsheathing.
"Tell me everything you know about Malrick’s power," he ordered.
My brows shot up. "Everything?"
"Yes." His eyes gleamed, fever-bright behind the glass. "No detail is too small."
I sighed, leaning back on my hands like a storyteller preparing to fleece a drunken crowd. I told him about the phantom heartbeat, the figures of mist, and my limitations for how long I could stay in that strange realm.
As I spoke, Atticus scribbled furiously, the scratch of his pen louder than Freya’s breathing. His hand flew, notes spilling across the page with manic precision. His glasses slid down his nose again, and without even pausing, he shoved them back up with the edge of his palm, eyes never leaving the paper.
I watched him, curiosity prickling. Finally, I tilted my head and asked, "Why’s this so important to you in the first place? You look like a man who just discovered free ale at the end of the world."
That’s when it happened. His eyes blew wide. His pen froze mid-scratch. And then, with all the grace of a mad prophet, he snapped his head up, lunged forward, and grabbed me by the shoulders.
"Loona," he hissed, and saints, I swear his voice actually trembled. "Do you have any idea what this power is?"
"Uh," I said, blinking. "A party trick? A hangover hallucination? The world’s worst striptease?"
"No." His grip tightened. "This is spatial magic."
I cocked my head, utterly lost. "Okay? And... that’s bad?"
Atticus shook me so hard I thought my teeth might rattle loose. "Bad? It’s meant to be impossible! Do you not understand? Spatial magic is not just rare, it is forbidden by reality itself. It’s deemed an impossibility by every great scholar, every mage, every arcanist who has ever studied the fabric of existence. It belongs in the same category as time manipulation and the alteration of fate itself!"
I blinked. Slowly. Then deadpanned, "Oh, well, in that case—yes, clearly I’m very important. Someone fetch me a crown."
Across from me, Freya yawned so loudly I thought her jaw might dislocate. "Gods, just hurry it up already," she drawled, picking idly at her ear with her pinky.
Atticus froze. His hands dropped from my shoulders as though I’d suddenly grown spikes. He cleared his throat violently, coughed once, and settled back into his kneeling position.
"Very well," he muttered. "Experiment one. Loona, use your power and try to interact with Freya."
My brows shot up. "Interact? As in... touch her?"
"Yes."
I smirked. "And what happens if my hand passes through her body and comes back in the same second? Do I, I don’t know, rip a hole in the universe? Implode? Grow an extra limb? Because if it’s that last one, I’ve got some ideas about where to put it."
Atticus’s eyes gleamed. He leaned in and said, in a tone that was far too calm for comfort: "Then we will finally know the limits of existence. Perhaps even fracture them."
I stared at him. He stared back, utterly serious. Saints preserve me, the man was a psychopath wrapped in tweed.
"Huh?" Freya muttered, still picking her ear.
"Nothing!" I squeaked, letting out a nervous giggle that bounced awkwardly off the stone. "Absolutely nothing at all."
And with that, I complied.
The phantom beat began deep in my chest, slow at first, then quickening. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Like a drum struck by invisible hands. My vision blurred, the candlelight smearing into black streaks, the air thickening with that oily mist. My skin prickled as though the world itself had shifted its weight.
And then I was there again.
The strange realm. The shadow-realm. Whatever you wanted to call it. The walls bled into smoke, the floor into tar, my friends into silhouettes. Freya was no longer golden-haired and sun-eyed but a towering figure of mist, her shape flickering like a flame in the dark.
Carefully—oh so carefully—I raised my hand. My heartbeat quickened, hammering in my ribs. Inch by inch, my fingers approached her shadowy arm. The air buzzed, hot and cold all at once, and my chest constricted with the effort of holding myself steady.
And then—contact.
The moment my hand touched the black mist of her skin, everything snapped. The shadows evaporated, the chamber slammed back into being, and I was gasping on the floor like I’d just kissed lightning.
I wiped my lips and wheezed, "Okay, so... note to self: touching Freya is just as dangerous in the shadow-realm as it is in real life."
Atticus scribbled furiously, his hand a blur. His eyes never left the page.
"Ah so there seems to a be a limitation there. Curious indeed. Alright, next," he said briskly, snapping his fingers.
Freya’s eyes narrowed as he pulled something from his trousers—a dagger. And not the sleek kind either. No, this was a jagged, ugly thing, its edge cruel and uneven, the kind of weapon you didn’t just stab someone with—you insulted them with it.
Her eyes widened. "Ah, now we’re talking..."
"Just hold it for now," Atticus ordered sharply, his tone brooking no argument.
Freya glared at him, then at the dagger, then back at him. For a moment I thought she might bury it in his gut just out of spite. But finally, she took it without complaint.
Atticus nodded once, then turned to me. "Again."
I sighed, rolled my eyes, and let the phantom beat pull me under once more.
The mist consumed the room. Shadows flickered, Freya’s figure shifting into a towering specter. In her hand gleamed the dagger. But unlike the rest of her form—the dagger remained solid. Physical. Bright steel in a sea of shadow.
It was exactly like before. Brutus’s shadow handling the vials. The escort lunging at me with his knife. The objects here stayed real, tangible, even when the people around them were reduced to mist.
Curiosity lit in me like a spark.
I leaned forward, eyes on the blade. Slowly, deliberately, I reached out—and snatched it from her hand.
Freya’s shadow flinched, her form jerking as if startled. I grinned, twirling the dagger between my fingers with a smug little flourish, its steel gleaming even in the darkness.
And then I snapped back into the real world, still spinning the blade like it belonged to me.
Freya’s eyes narrowed, Atticus whistled.
"Fascinating." He said it like he’d just watched me juggle the moon. His eyes followed the dagger, his lips pursed, and I could practically hear his brain screaming data! over and over while his body struggled not to start frothing at the mouth.
"Yes, yes, very fascinating," I said with a smirk, twirling the blade once more before tucking it against my thigh. "Maybe I’ll start a trend—dagger spinning as a hobby. You know, like knitting, but deadlier."
Atticus ignored me. Instead he leaned forward, spectacles gleaming. "The blade disappeared from her grasp. It was entirely removed from her character when you took it, swallowed into that realm you speak of."
I hummed, nodding slowly, though mostly because it looked impressive. Then he tilted his head and I could see a wicked question forming behind his eyes. "What about her clothes?"
I almost choked on my own spit.
"Excuse me?" I sputtered, blinking at him like he’d just asked me to peel Freya like a grape. "Her clothes? Darling, if you wanted a strip show, you could’ve just asked nicely. I’m sure she’d—"
"Loona," he snapped, cutting me off before my imagination could properly sprint into scandalous territory.
I threw my hands up. "Fine, fine, spoil my fun. But really, that’s your burning question? Not the fact I just plucked a dagger out of thin air, but whether or not I can pants people in my little mist dimension?"
"Yes," he said flatly.
Saints above. The man was hopeless, or maybe that was just my own twisted perception.
Still, I thought back, frowning slightly. "Her clothes..." I rubbed my temples. "Oh, right. Her clothes, your clothes, Brutus’s—all of them are swallowed by the mist."
Atticus’s eyes widened, his pen already moving again. "Curious. Very curious. Consistent across multiple tests, then."
"Consistent across multiple—" I muttered. "Saints, you’re insufferable."
Then, just as I thought he was going to bury himself in a lecture long enough to fossilize me, Atticus stilled. His head perked up, his eyes narrowed, and then his lips curved into the faintest of smiles.
He slipped the spectacles off his face.
And oh, saints above, I swear he handled them with more care than most lovers ever handled me. His fingers traced the frame as though afraid to smudge the glass. He held them in one hand, his gaze snapping back to me.
"Loona," he said quietly. "Activate it again."
I groaned, rubbing my chest. "You know, this is starting to feel less like science and more like worn out foreplay. But fine, one more round."
The phantom beat answered my call at once, like some awful pet eager to be walked. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Then I was back.
And there he was—Atticus, tall and pale, his form hazy and shifting like ink in water. However, in his hand gleamed the glasses. Just like the dagger, they remained solid, physical in every sense of the word.
Curious, I thought, shifting closer on my knees.
And then Atticus’s shadow did something remarkable. It lifted the glasses and slid them back onto its face. The second they fit themselves on, they vanished. Swallowed by the mist, becoming part of him once more, indistinguishable from his body.
My heart lurched. The realm shuddered. And then I was yanked back. I sat there wheezing, one hand pressed to my chest, the other clutching the dagger for comfort. "Well," I croaked, "that was unpleasant."
Atticus leaned forward, eyes glittering. "And?"
I dragged a hand over my face, groaning. "Fine, fine. When you held the glasses in your hand, they stayed physical—like the dagger. When you put them on, though? Gone. Poof. Just mist."
Atticus exhaled slowly, as if he’d just confirmed some sacred prayer. "As I thought."
"Oh, here we go again," I muttered, bracing myself.
He began pacing now, one hand clasped behind his back, the other clutching his pen. His voice quickened with each word, the tone of a man spiraling into theory. "I hypothesis that the mist swallows one’s self-perception. Items considered extensions of one’s character are absorbed into the shadow. Our clothing, our collars, my glasses—when attached to us, they become part of us. External tools, however—daggers, trinkets, coins and the like—remain vulnerable."
I slumped against the wall, massaging my temples. "Saints above, this is exhausting. Can’t we just call it shadow thievery and move on?"
Despite my complaints, I understood the general implications. This meant that whatever was registered as an external item, I could steal from them in the realm while the items swallowed by the mist would be restricted from my grasp.
Saints, perhaps I was a bit smarter than I once thought.
Freya, of course, chose this exact moment to let out the loudest snore I’d ever heard in my life. Atticus froze mid-lecture. Slowly—painfully slowly—he turned his head toward her.
She was sprawled on the floor now, arms wide, head tilted back, mouth slightly open. Snoring. And not just a delicate flutter, either, but the kind of snore that rattled your bones and made you question whether demons could crawl out of someone’s lungs.
"Freya," Atticus hissed. No response. "Freya." Louder now. Still nothing. Finally, with all the fury of a scorned professor, he snapped his fingers an inch from her ear.
She jolted awake with a grunt, glaring daggers at him. "What?!"
"You were asleep."
"I was resting my eyes," she growled.
"You were snoring."
"Shut up," she snapped, rubbing her face. "Gods, if you’re done scribbling in that stupid diary of yours, can we get to the actual training already?"
I blinked at her. "Training? What training?"
Atticus adjusted his spectacles again. "Ah, yes. That."
I groaned. "Oh saints, what fresh torture is this?"
"It’s not torture," he said, though his voice carried the kind of calm that suggested otherwise. "I’ve collected enough notes for now. The next step is practical application. I want to see if you can train these newfound powers of yours—extend your time in the realm, learn to slip faster, perhaps even control your interactions."
My jaw dropped. "You want me to practice disappearing into the mist? Saints, I already faint for free! And now you want me to do it on purpose?"
"You can refuse if you wish."
I rubbed my face, muttering curses under my breath. Still, despite my whining, something in me stirred—excitement, maybe. The idea of pushing this power further, of shaping it into something I could actually use on a more practical level, was intoxicating. Dangerous, sure. Maddening, yes. But useful all the same.
I stood, stretching my arms high above my head, the dagger still twirling lazily between my fingers. My back cracked open, my legs ached, but my grin curled sharp.
"Alright then," I said, shaking the tension from my shoulders. "Bring it on."