Reject me twice (Kira and Theron) novel Chapter 106

Malik finds me in my study before dawn. His jaw is set in the configuration that tells me he’s been awake for hours.

“The entire court saw it,” he says. “And Magnus Ironridge watched your daughter move a silver goblet across a table with her mind.”

“I’m aware.”

“By this morning, every servant who attended that dinner will have told at least two others, and by midday, the palace will be discussing it. By week’s end, it reaches the territories.”

“Wasn’t it your idea? Nothing awful happened: a toddler pushing a cup. It can be dismissed as a minor telekinetic ability, common enough among powerful bloodlines.”

“You and I both know that’s a lie, Kira, and Magnus now knows it too. He watched Lyra lock eyes with him for ten seconds before she moved that goblet. That was targeted and controlled — any wolf paying attention understood exactly what they were looking at.”

He’s right. The fury in his voice is contained, clipped sentences through a jawline that could cut glass.

“I should have seen the moment coming,” I say. “Lyra’s been escalating for weeks, placing her in a room with a table full of observers was a calculated risk, and I calculated wrong.”

“We both did. I pushed for the proximity test. I wanted to see how she’d react to Magnus, and I got exactly what I asked for, in front of a dozen witnesses who will ensure the information spreads to every corner of this palace.”

“Recrimination later, damage control now.” I pull a sheet of parchment toward me. “I’ll instruct the court to treat the incident as unremarkable. The official position: a child’s involuntary magical reflex, consistent with the Silver bloodline.”

“It won’t hold. Court gossip is more efficient than any intelligence network I’ve ever built. The story will mutate — by the time it reaches the outer territories, Lyra will be levitating thrones and reading minds.”

“We control the mutation. The more boring we make the official narrative, the less interesting the gossip becomes. A child nudged a cup. End of discussion.”

“And Magnus?”

“He will draw his own conclusions regardless of what the court is told. What we can do is ensure he doesn’t get a second demonstration.”

Malik nods, sharp and unhappy. He leaves to begin damage protocols, and I sit with the weight of my miscalculation.

I spend the afternoon with Elara in the archive.

The documents recovered from the southern Broken Crown cell are fragmentary but revealing.

Elara has been reconstructing them for days, piecing together torn parchment and water-damaged text with the meticulous patience that makes her invaluable.

“The ritual requires three elements,” she says, spreading the reconstructed pages across the table.

“The power source — a living being with transferable ability. The recipient and a catalyst — an object or substance that bridges the transfer, channeling the power from one vessel to the other.”

“What kind of?”

“The texts reference it obliquely — ‘the bridge,’ ‘the vessel between vessels.’ Whatever it is, the knowledge appears restricted to an inner circle. These documents describe the ritual’s mechanics but omit the catalyst’s identity.”

“So someone could know the full ritual and still be unable to perform it without the catalyst.”

“Exactly. The catalyst itself may be the most closely guarded secret in this entire chain of knowledge. Whoever possesses it holds the key to everything else.”

“Is there anything else in those fragments?”

Elara hesitates. The pause is small but I’ve known her long enough to recognize the particular quality of silence that precedes information she wishes she didn’t have.

The proposal is practical and reasonable. Additional security for the twins, provided by an ally who’s demonstrated his commitment through blood and sacrifice. Any monarch would welcome it.

Any monarch who didn’t know what I know.

“That’s a generous offer, Magnus,” I say. “Damon and I will discuss it with Commander Malik and provide a response. The children’s security arrangements involve multiple considerations that require careful evaluation.”

“Of course. I only raise it because the alternative is a risk I’d rather not see your family take,” he pauses. “Those children are extraordinary, so they deserve extraordinary protection.”

He leaves. Damon turns to me, and his face carries the war I’ve watched him fight since Elara’s archive discovery — the man who likes Magnus battling the father who heard what Elara just told me about children’s power being more transferable.

“He wants his wolves next to our children,” I say.

“For protection, sister.”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive, Damon. Given what Elara found today, I can’t afford to assume generosity when the stakes are my children’s lives.”

Damon’s jaw works. He doesn’t argue.

We decline the offer by morning, politely, graciously, with the diplomatic warmth that preserves the alliance while drawing a line around the nursery wing that Magnus Ironridge’s wolves will never cross.

Whether that line holds depends on what Magnus actually wants — the question that still has no answer, circling the palace like a wolf too patient to show its teeth.