Page 9 of Roaring Spell

“Almost certainly.” Elio waves him off.

Rhodes sighs and leaves.

The room feels different without the formal structure—looser, more honest. Aslan stretches, rolling his shoulders, and the collar of his shirt shifts to reveal more of his claiming mark.

“So.” Elio’s gaze tracks to the mark with open curiosity. “How does it feel? Being claimed by a witch?”

“I claimed her too.” Aslan’s voice carries a warmth I’ve never heard from him before. “It’s mutual.”

“Obviously. I’m asking about the experience. The sensation.” Elio leans forward, genuinely curious beneath his usual smoothness. “Our grandmothers told stories about witch-shifter matings, but those were supposed to be myths.”

Aslan considers the question. His hand drifts to his mark—unconscious, protective.

“Like waking up.” He pauses, searching for words that seem inadequate. “After years of sleepwalking. Everything before felt muted. Distant. And she’s...” Another pause. “She’s the first thing that’s ever felt real.”

Something twists in my chest. Not envy. Just a very specific awareness of what I’ve been missing.

“That sounds like a medical condition.”

Elio laughs. “That sounds like poetry. Torin, you should write that down.”

My expression doesn’t change. “I’ll pass.”

I already did. Three days ago. Slightly different phrasing, but the same sentiment. Hidden in the journal in my bookcase where no one will ever find it.

“What about you?” Aslan’s attention shifts to me, tiger-focus pinning me in place. “Any prospects? The matchmakers have been circling you for years.”

“No.”

“Not interested, or not finding anyone?”

“Both.” I stand, signaling the end of this particular conversation. “Some of us aren’t meant for mates.”

Aslan’s face softens—sympathy mixed with disagreement. Or recognition.

“That’s what I thought too.” His voice goes quiet. “Until I wasn’t.”

My cabin is dark when I return. I don’t bother with lights.

Just sink into the chair by the cold fireplace and stare at nothing while my bear paces circles in my skull.

Why did you volunteer to continue?

The question has no good answer. Just the memory of my own voice cutting through the meeting before my mind had caught up and the way something in my chest had risen when Rhodes started framing her as a concern to be managed. A threat to be contained.

She’s not a threat. She’s struggling.

I know the difference. I’ve spent enough years watching the Network make that mistake about things it doesn’t understand.

Is that all it is?

My bear offers no answer. Just paces.

I should assign someone else. Return to my steady, predictable, empty existence and let Caius find a different volunteer. Someone whose reasons would make sense.

Instead, I reach for the journal hidden in a bookcase. One of seven hiding spots. I know it’s ridiculous. No one comes to my cabin. No one would find them.

But the idea of anyone reading what I write—seeing the soft, foolish, wanting parts of me that don’t fit with who I’m supposed to be⁠—