Something was wrong with me.
I knew it in the quiet moments—those strange pauses between thoughts, when my body moved a second before my mind caught up. It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't loud.
It was subtle.
Like reaching for a cup and realizing I'd already picked it up.
Like laughing at something I didn't find funny.
Like words slipping from my mouth that I hadn't decided to say.
I told myself it was exhaustion. Or stress. Or the weight of this palace pressing in on me from every side.
Anything but fear.
After the night I woke up in my bed without remembering how I returned, Santiago changed.
Not in the way people would notice easily.
He still didn't come to my room. Still didn't ask how I was. Still wore that cold, unreadable expression like armor.
But his eyes lingered.
I caught him watching me more often—at breakfast when I finally came downstairs again, in the corridors, during council dinners. His gaze felt sharper now, as if he were searching for something beneath my skin.
It made me uneasy.
And angry.
He has no right to look at me like that, I thought bitterly one afternoon as I sat by the window, listening to birds argue over crumbs.
Storm bearer is hunting, one bird whispered.
"Hunting what?" I murmured.
The bird tilted its head. What hides in flesh.
My chest tightened.
I didn't ask more.
What I didn't know—what I couldn't know—was that Santiago had already searched his chambers.
The seals were intact.
The wards unbroken.
The demon was gone.
I only learned later, from whispers in the palace, that the heir of Rogan had locked himself inside his magic hall for an entire night. That the ground trembled beneath the eastern wing. That the air smelled of lightning and ash.
I didn't hear the incantations.
I didn't see him try to summon it back.
But I felt the aftermath.
That night, I woke with my heart racing, my skin cold, as though something inside me had laughed quietly.
The demon did not answer Santiago's call.
It could not.
A summoned entity needed a tether—a fragment, a sigil, a trace of itself left behind.
This one had chosen something better.
A body.
A strong one.
A living vessel wrapped in bloodlines, perception, and quiet power that even its host didn't fully understand.
By the time Santiago realized that, it was already too late.
Dinner was supposed to be ordinary.
That was the cruelest part.
The long table was filled—members of the Rogan family, distant relatives, council representatives. The air buzzed with polite conversation and restrained laughter.
I sat at my place, hands folded neatly in my lap.
Santiago sat across from me.
Our eyes met briefly.
Something flickered there—calculation, tension, restraint.
I looked away first.
The food was placed before us in perfect symmetry. The scent should have made me hungry.
Instead, my stomach twisted.
I picked up my fork.
The metal felt heavier than usual.
The moment my fingers closed around it, a strange irritation flared inside me—sharp and sudden, like a spark hitting dry wood.
Why are they all watching you? a thought whispered.
I frowned slightly.
No one was staring.
I took a bite.
The irritation didn't fade.
It grew.
The sound of cutlery scraping against plates suddenly felt unbearable. The low murmur of voices grated against my ears. Someone laughed too loudly.
My hand tightened around the fork.
Hit it, the thought urged.
I stiffened.
Stop, I told myself.
My hand moved anyway.
The fork struck the plate.
Once.
The sound rang out sharply.
Conversation faltered.
I froze, heat rushing to my face.
"I'm sorry," I said quickly. "I didn't—"
My hand hit the plate again.
Harder.
The sound echoed.
"Angel?" Santiago said quietly.
I didn't look at him.
My chest felt tight. My breathing shallow.
Again, the thought whispered, pleased.
"No," I muttered under my breath.
The fork struck the plate a third time.
Aggressively.
Silence fell across the table.
A maid hurried forward, concern written clearly across her face. "Lady Angel—are you unwell?"
"I'm fine," I said, too quickly.
The maid reached for my hand.
Something inside me snapped.
I didn't decide to move.
I didn't feel anger.
I felt release.
The fork left my hand.
There was a sharp gasp.
The maid cried out as the fork struck her palm, clattering to the floor immediately after. She stumbled back, clutching her hand, shock flooding her face.
Chaos erupted.
Chairs scraped back. Voices rose. Someone shouted for a healer.
I stared at my empty hand.
My heart pounded violently.
"I—I didn't mean to," I whispered.
My fingers trembled.
Across the table, Santiago had gone completely still.
His eyes were locked on me—not cold now, not distant.
Focused.
Certain.
And afraid.
He stood slowly.
"Clear the room," he ordered, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade.
No one argued.
As the hall emptied, I sat frozen in my chair, staring at my hands like they belonged to someone else.
"What did I just do?" I whispered.
Santiago didn't answer.
He was already walking toward me.