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CORIN

The first thing I notice when I wake is the heat.

It does not come from the blankets or the faint warmth still clinging to the coals downstairs. It lives beneath my skin, slow and deliberate, coiled along my ribs like something that has learned patience and is now testing whether it still needs it. It rises and falls with my breath, pressing outward just enough to remind me that it exists, that it is awake before I am, that it has never really slept.

I lie still for a moment, staring at the ceiling while the sensation settles into something I can name without flinching.

“Morning,” I mutter, voice rough with sleep, because talking to it has become a habit I refuse to examine too closely.

The room offers no response. That, at least, remains reassuring.

I push myself upright and sit on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on my knees while the weight of myself resolves into something solid. The floorboards are cold beneath my bare feet. I press my palms flat against my thighs, flexing my fingers slowly as if I expect them to spark or fracture under the strain of whatever I have become.

They do neither. Not yet.

“Good,” I say under my breath. “Let’s keep it that way.”

The mirror against the far wall catches my attention before I can decide whether I want it to. It leans slightly crooked, warped at the edges so that anyone standing off-center looks like they are melting into themselves. I step in front of it anyway, because avoidance has never fixed anything and I am running out of time to pretend that it might.

For a brief moment, I look like myself.

My hair has grown longer than I like, falling into my eyes in uneven strands because I keep telling myself I will cut it later. My jaw is sharper than it used to be, but not enough to draw notice from anyone who is not already looking too closely. There is a faint warmth to my skin, as though I have spent too long near a fire, but it reads as health rather than warning.

Then I blink, and the illusion fractures.

Gold seeps into my eyes without effort, overtaking the brown in a slow, steady rise that settles into place as though it has always belonged there. There is no flicker, no strain, no sign that it costs me anything to maintain. The glow is constant now, present even when I am not reaching for it, a quiet declaration that whatever restraint I once relied on is no longer the thing holding me together.

“Right,” I murmur, leaning closer to the glass. “We’re doing that today.”

I brace one hand against the wall beside the mirror, watching the light in my eyes deepen. It does not respond to will the way it used to. It simply exists, an uninvited presence that refuses to fade just because I would prefer it gone.

My gaze shifts upward.

The glamour is holding, but only just.

I can see the distortion if I look at it directly, a faint shimmer above my temples that bends the air in subtle, telling ways. The horns press against it from beneath, not breaking through, but making their presence known.

I let my focus slip for a fraction of a second.

The illusion falters.

Dark curves flicker into existence, sharp and undeniable, before the glamour snaps back into place with a pulse that rattles through my skull. The sensation leaves a faint ringing behind my eyes, like a warning struck too close to bone.

I straighten slowly, dragging my attention back into alignment. “All right,” I tell my reflection. “We’re not doing that again.”

The heat beneath my skin shifts, a subtle movement that feels suspiciously like amusement.

“Don’t,” I add, more firmly this time. “We have an arrangement. You behave, I keep us out of trouble, and we both get to exist without anyone trying to kill us. It’s a solid plan.”

No answer comes, which suits me fine.

I pull a shirt over my head, the fabric catching briefly against the faint rise of bone before sliding into place. The sensation no longer surprises me, but it never fully fades into the background either. Every small reminder reinforces the same truth: this body does not belong entirely to the world it moves through anymore.

I finish dressing, lace my boots, and head downstairs.

The house is quiet. Sable has already gone, which is exactly what I expect. She wakes before the sun most days, moves through the world with a purpose that makes time feel like something she negotiates with rather than something that governs her.