Page 13 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

“It’s a start,” she said.

He smiled—a slow, perceptive smile. Softly, he said, “I was bored. Now, I’m invested.” He placed more than enough bills on the table to cover their tea. “I’ll be in touch.”

As he turned to go, she nudged the bakery box she’d been tugging along toward him. “Take this,” she said. “Consider it . . . a perk of having a baker as a Chosen.”

His gaze traced the embossed label on top. “‘The Witching Flour.’ Your bakery?”

Cassia nodded. “It’s in Little Mineola, though not the kind of place your lot usually frequents.”

“A Kitchen Witch, then?”

“Like my mother before me.”

He offered a brief, acknowledging smile. “I bid you good night.” A deliberate pause. “Cassia.”

The sudden intimacy of her name on his lips lingered. She ignored the warmth in her cheeks. “Do I call you Arkenoth? Or does this fake engagement come with fake familiarity?”

“The people closest to me call me Ark. That includes you now.”

She couldn’t believe this was happening. The absurdity of it pressed against her ribs, threatening to bubble up as a laugh or a scream—she wasn’t sure which.

“Are you really as idle as they say you are?”

Ark paused, watching her with that same unreadable glint he’d worn all through their tea. Then, with the barest smirk, he said, “I suppose that’s for you to discover, now that we’re engaged.”

He inclined his head and strode out of the teahouse, disappearing into the night. Cassia remained seated, fingers brushing the pocket holding the lock of hair. A shiver ghosted down her spine.

A path had unexpectedly opened up before her.

But why did she feel as though she’d just handed a match to a man surrounded by gunpowder?

4

ARK

The road stretched before him, a dark ribbon slick beneath his car’s headlights. It hugged the eastern perimeter of Lake Ontarel, bordering Angelene and its surrounding towns. He guided the vehicle with a practiced grip, but his usual calm felt punctured. A glance at the clock confirmed he was late. In his defence, he’d tried to be punctual—but his evening had been derailed by a witch with emerald eyes.

As he passed through Little Mineola, his gaze flicked to the bakery box in the passenger seat. Her village. The Witching Flour was somewhere along these dark, quiet streets. He imagined it without trying—a warm shopfront glowing against the cold, smelling exactly like this box. Its warmth had faded, but its presence lingered, filling his car with the ghost of cinnamon and honey. A silent reminder of an agreement that should feel absurd.

A fake engagement.

He replayed the moment—not the defiance at the club, but the shrewd vulnerability in her gaze as she sat across from him and demanded her terms. Miss Aura Cassia had weighed him, found him wanting in trust but sufficient in utility. She’d chosen to place a wager on him.

A dangerous gamble, for both of them.

He exhaled. The idea was brilliant in its simplicity—it solved the problem of his mother’s ball. But there was more. Alderrath’s frustration at The Ivory Club had made one thing clear: he wanted Starlight badly.

And anything Alderrath wanted that badly, Ark had an instinct to dismantle.

Fifteen kilometres past Little Mineola, he turned onto a side street. Darkness closed in. Wilderness crept to the edges of the road, swallowing the world beyond his headlights. Here, the air carried none of the city’s cloying politics and superficiality—only the cold bite of winter, laced with something older and far more honest. The road narrowed, flanked by towering oaks whose bare branches knitted together overhead like interlocking fingers.

At its end, a mansion waited—a jagged silhouette against the starlit sky. The stone walls stood intact, but no light glowed in any window. No smoke rose from the chimneys. The gravel drive was choked with weeds, and the box hedges had grown into shapeless masses. Ivy draped the façade in heavy curtains, years of slow growth creeping toward the windows, patient and unhurried.

Soon, this abandoned place would belong to him.

Well, to Aegis & Ash.

Another piece on the board. Another secret claim.