Page 25 of The Threads Between

I gasped.

“Breathe,” Beatrice said. “Just one more.”

Wall by wall, I let them fall. Each one I’d placed to keep myself safe. To keep others safe from me.

The last wall was the one that kept my magic from spilling out and consuming everything around me. I’d never dared let it drop before. Had never been entirely sure I could control what would happen if I did.

Ysella and Syra had been right about me, back in Oxford. I was powerful—too powerful, maybe. And that scared me more than I cared to admit.

I let the final wall fall.

And Beatrice’s magic crashed into mine.

Pain lanced through my chest—immediate, visceral, wrong in every way. Her power moved like winter itself. Nothing like August’s warmth. This was cold pressing against warm, and my body wanted to reject it the way it would reject poison.

My grip tightened on her hand. “I can’t⁠—“

“You can.” Beatrice’s voice was steady through the pain. “This is what it will feel like when you first try to open to August’s power. Your magic will resist. With his power corrupted, yours will try to protect you from something it perceives as destructive.”

Across the cellar, Syra's hand had moved to the wall behind her—bracing, ready to push off. Her eyes tracked our joined hands.

The pain spread through my chest like cracks in ice. Her magic moved through mine—cold fingers pressing against warm flesh, searching, testing, finding every vulnerable place and pressing harder.

“You have to push through the resistance,” Beatrice said. “Convince your magic that what it’s touching isn’t dangerous. That it belongs.”

I tried. Forced my restoration magic to accept the intrusion instead of fighting it. To recognize Beatrice’s power as something that belonged there, even when everything in me screamed that it didn’t.

The pain didn’t lessen, only changed. Became sharper. More focused.

“That’s it,” Beatrice murmured. “Now hold it there. Don’t push further. Just . . . hold.”

I held.

Seconds stretched. The pain stayed constant—not worsening, but not easing either. Just this terrible pressure of two incompatible magics forced into contact.

And then—slowly, grudgingly—the edges started to soften.

They didn’t merge or bond. They just . . . acknowledged each other. Like two animals circling, deciding whether to fight or coexist.

“Good,” Beatrice whispered. “That’s the recognition. That’s what you need to reach before you can move to stage three.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

“Now we’re going to try to hold it longer. Push just a little deeper.”

She adjusted her grip on my hand, and her magic pressed harder against mine.

The pain flared. My restoration power jerked back instinctively, trying to protect itself.

“No,” Beatrice said sharply. “Don’t retreat. Push back. Meet it halfway.”

I gritted my teeth and forced my magic forward again. Back into contact with that terrible cold.

This time, something else happened.

My restoration magic didn’t just touch Beatrice’s power. It tasted it.

And it was hungry.