The house was unusually quiet without the old sorcerer. The walls still hummed faintly with the residue of old spells, but the stern footsteps and deep voice that usually carried through the halls were absent. For once, Caelan should have felt relief. Instead, he felt dread creeping up his spine as he walked quickly through the corridor, his robe torn at the sleeve, a smear of green smoke clinging to his curls.

He pushed open the kitchen door. The warm flicker of a candle greeted him first, then the sight of Lyandra seated at the wooden table. She leaned on one elbow, chin resting against her gloved hand, her long copper-brown curls tumbling in unruly waves across her shoulders. The wide brim of her witch’s hat cast shadows over her sharp, striking face, but her golden-brown eyes gleamed with mischief even in half-darkness. She was draped in a black gown, elegant yet practical, and in the soft glow of the candle she looked less like the daughter of a sorcerer and more like trouble itself—beautiful, dangerous, and amused.

Caelan stopped in the doorway, his chest rising and falling too fast. Lyandra’s eyes lifted lazily from the candle flame to him.

“You look,” she said slowly, “like someone who set half the house on fire.”

“I didn’t,” Caelan blurted out, too quickly. “Not—yet.”

Her brows arched. “Yet?”

He shifted on his feet, clutching at the edge of his robe. “I—I was trying to brew the nightshade draught. I followed the instructions. I swear I did. But something—happened.”

Lyandra leaned forward, her smile playing at the corners of her lips. “Something?”

“It… moved,” he admitted, his voice cracking on the word. “The potion. It grew limbs. And teeth. Small teeth, but very sharp. It crawled out of the cauldron, and I thought—well, I thought it might bite me, so I left.”

Lyandra burst out laughing, a bright, ringing sound that filled the kitchen like spilled wine. She pressed a hand to her mouth, but the corners of her eyes crinkled with delight. “Oh, Caelan,” she said, her voice rich with amusement. “You abandoned your creation to roam free in Father’s study? I can only imagine how pleased he’ll be when he returns to find a baby monster nesting in his books.”

Heat burned in Caelan’s cheeks. “I panicked,” he muttered, dropping into the chair across from her. His shoulders sagged. “I thought I could handle it, but it wouldn’t stop moving. I—I didn’t know what to do.”

For a moment, Lyandra only watched him, her chin still propped against her gloved hand. Then, softer, she asked, “And you came to me for help?”

He hesitated before nodding. “You always know what to do. Even when you don’t.”

Lyandra tilted her head, her curls spilling across her arm. The candle between them flickered, the flame bending toward her as if listening. She reached out, her fingers brushing his wrist lightly. “You give me far too much credit, Cael. I’m only slightly less reckless than you are.”

“That isn’t true,” he said, almost defensive.

Lyandra leaned back suddenly, breaking the tension, and clapped her hands together. “Well,” she declared, “if there’s a toothy little potion-creature hiding in the study, we’d best catch it before Father does. Imagine the look on his face when he asks where it came from. Shall I tell him it was your genius idea?”

Caelan groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Please don’t.”

Her laughter returned, lighter now. She stood, her skirts sweeping the floor as she moved toward the door, candle in hand. “Come, apprentice. Let’s tame your monster before it eats the curtains. And next time, when your potion starts growing teeth—don’t run. Call for me sooner.”