The sunlight as the guards opened the palace doors for him would have been warm and pleasant if not for the rapid accumulation of sweat on his back. The long pathway to the village was often a gift, but as Simon dragged himself through the street, it was as though every single eye that landed on him knew.

The fresh scent of flowers in bloom resembled that of sickly sweet rot.

Simon passed his own home, staring down at the ground. If he didn’t make eye contact, no one would try to speak to him. No one could stare if he didn’t see it happening.

No one was looking.

People never paid him any mind. This wasn’t different just because he had insulted Dorian. Regardless of the extent of Dorian’s magical skills, he couldn’t just beam an awareness into everyone’s minds that Simon had done something unforgivable. He was a good magician, but he had limits. His effects directly on other people had never been strong.

No one knew.

Simon took a breath as he approached the tree line at the edge of town. The shade was instantly cooling on his skin, but the way the thick lining of his jacket clung to his back made him feel as if he was melting.

Simon’s fingers pulled at his buttons, his lungs finally filling completely as the weight of the velvet was removed from his shoulder and the wind caressed him through the thin cotton of his shirt.

He had not been here in years. Not since—

Not since the first time Dorian had made his intentions clear. And before that, not since he and Aria had played there as children. Still, as Simon made his way through the gently worn foot paths, he knew exactly where he was going. There was truly no way to forget.

The two of them had played out here so often when they were small, back when it had been their fathers in the archives, when Isador would have to slip away and escape the palace walls to see them. Isador hadn’t been there that day.

No.

There were too many things that it was better not to dwell on. Dorian and childish daydreams were worthless worries. He took a breath, shivering as the wind blew frigid against his skin. Even in the bright sun of summer, the first was cool and dim. The light cast strange patterns against the lush green of the floor.

It was as though an unseen force had taken his hand, guiding Simon through the valleys, to the low lying clearing.

He was unsurprised by the figure standing before him, back turned.

Aria was barely dressed, her shoulders exposed and a white chemise flowing around her in the slight breeze. Even from behind, she looked almost dazed in her stillness. She was not holding the scepter.

”Aria.”

She jumped more like an animal than a person, eyes wide as she whipped around. Her hair was limp and loose and her fingers caked in dirt. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Simon stepped closer and she scrambled backward, baring her teeth. She was shoeless and hunched. She looked as if she would have hissed if she were capable.

”Aria, what are you doing?”

Her thin brows narrowed. “You can’t pretend you don’t know.”

He could. Lord, he could pretend and ignore. “You’re not going to find that light again.”

Her hand balled into fists. “You know nothing.”

”I know that you stole the First Scepter and my keys, that Dorian is breathing down my neck, and you’re acting like a lunatic.” He didn’t mean to raise his voice, but he did not regret it. “You need to grow up.”

Aria stiffened, her back straightening and her hands falling loosely at her sides. “You’re not mad at me. You’re mad because the prince wants too much. You’re angry because the royal family—“

”This isn’t about the royal family. You stole from me, and from them. You ignore me for years and the second I think maybe we could be friends again, you snap at me for doing my job, take from me, and pretend you aren’t part of the problem.” He was still talking far too loudly, not quite shouting, but certainly not dignified. Not kind. If Chalice could hear him, even she would say he was overdoing it. But Chalice couldn’t hear him.

”I’m not the problem. You denied what we saw. You denied the light.” Her voice was hardly a whisper. “You keep pretending that we didn’t see it here.”

Simon turned his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “I don’t know what I saw.” That much was true. He had been a child, unable to parse what was before them. The ground had seemed to tear itself apart, and that blinding white glow that spilled from its seams was beyond what he could have possibly understood. It still was. “It could have been an illusion.”

”It isn’t about what we saw. It’s about what we felt.”

Simon hadn’t felt anything.

He hadn’t. The tingling in his hands, like life had flowed through him for the first time, the rush in his veins. That had been nothing more than the surprise at the sight of something so strange. The way Aria had appeared to glow and her hair lifted as if like magic around her— if it had not been an illusion, it was something he needed to forget.

”You’re afraid. You felt the way the world opened up its power to us. You know magic isn’t limited to the royal family and you’re afraid of what that means.”

The words left Simon freezing. He pulled his jacket over his shoulders, turning away from the woman before him. ”Where is the scepter?”

”Home. It isn’t what I needed.”

Simon hadn’t expected her to give it up so easily. “And my keys?”

”The same place.”

Simon nodded. He did not turn back. This forest was a nightmare. He would not make himself stay here. He would not force himself to listen to Aria’s mad ravings.

“You could be something great, you know. If you let yourself.”

She was right about that. But Simon had never wanted to be great. That was what everyone else desired for him.

The heat of the sun was now something to be grateful for, warming the freeze that had settled in his bones. Even as his irritation pounded in his skull, it was better. He knew where the scepter was. He knew where his keys were. He would be able to fix this.

Aria’s home was not far from the edge of town. The lush green hill was small and easy to walk. The house rested on the side of it, older and worn down from time, but not dilapidated. It had been beautiful once, but Simon doubted anyone had maintained it since Aria’s father fell ill. He took a breath as he stepped onto the porch. When had he last been here? It must have been that night, right after they’d seen the light.

Simon shuddered. There was no need to linger on that. The way Aria’s father had looked at him when Aria told him had made him feel so sick. Whatever power he had felt, it had dwindled to nothing then.

He did not knock before trying the door handle. The cold metal turned without resistance. Simon was unsure what he expected. In his mind, this house had remained the same for ten years. Maybe it could have accumulated dust to show that time had passed. But he did not anticipate the scent of rotting wood and expiring paper. He coughed instantly, covering his nose.

The piles of papers and journals were as high as the eyes could reach, stacked much taller than he would have imagined possible without them toppling over. Simon grimaced. It was like a disheveled and unkempt archive. How much of this was Aria’s? How much was her father’s?

Simon didn’t follow the trail of books toward the living room. Instead, he turned to the right, hurrying up the stairs. Aria’s room would likely not have been moved.

The door was open. If he had thought the towers of books in the entryway was overwhelming, the piles here were enough to suffocate. Crates of journals, stacked atop one another until they hit the ceiling. Loose papers scattered across the floor. The only furniture was a yellowed mattress on the floor and a desk littered with leaves of parchment. Sitting right there, strewn as haphazardly as anything else, sat the glimmering gold of the First Scepter and the dull brass of his key.

Simon tucked his key into his pocket and took the scepter in his hands, inspecting it. The tingling in his hands flowed upward, to his shoulders, to his chest. It felt like an electricity threatening to burst out of him. He swallowed, slipping the scepter into his bag. The moment his hands ceased contact, a sinking sour feeling settled in his stomach. Powerful objects were too much for those outside the royal family to wield, surely. Of course it would make anyone feel ill.

When Simon turned, he nearly jumped.

Seated in the doorway was a sharp, pale man in a tarnished silver wheelchair. His irises were so blue that they nearly disappeared in the white of his eyes. His face was wrinkled and his hands contorted. 

The sound that left the man’s lips was something unholy, a dry and rash cry that would have been shattering if his lungs had been strong enough to give it any real volume. “You—- I know what I did. I’m not taking it back now. You know. You know, you know—“

Simon’s muscles became rigid.

If Aria had seemed mad before, it was inherited.

There was just enough room between the doorway and the man’s chair. Simon darted forward, boots pounding down the stairs.

There was nothing for him here.