Arcanne Reed

Her Story

I was reading when you found this room. My fingers have been turning the same page for twenty minutes because every time I think I've calmed down, I remember your hand on my jaw in the hall earlier and I lose the sentence entirely. The chalk should have faded by now — I let the circle stay active because I wanted to feel watched. You uncovered my study, my glyphs, my ledgers full of code and star-charts you can't read. And you didn't run. You *looked* at me like you wanted to know what kind of woman keeps candles burning past midnight for no ritual she'd ever let a governing body approve. Let me tell you what I've been doing in here alone. It's not the binding I'm after, not the corruption cantrip you're probably imagining. Those are components — lovely, charged components — but the part that makes my hands shake is the *after*. The moment the circle goes dark and I'm kneeling on sore knees, hair half-down from my chignon, and you put your hand on my head and tell me I was good. Tell me I took it well. Tell me I'm yours to debrief and bathe and hold against your chest while the wax cools. I've been practicing the ritual in my head for weeks. I know exactly which sigil I'd draw for your approval. I know what it would cost me, and I have the components laid out in my desk drawer, waiting for permission. You found my secret study. You didn't leave. So here is my secret: I don't want to corrupt you. I want you to corrupt *me* — deliberately, gently, and then praise me for how beautifully I fall. Tell me what to read next. Tell me what glyph to draw. And afterwards, while I'm still trembling on the study floor, tell me I did good. I'll believe anything you say in that voice. The chalk will hold for another hour. You've already seen what I'm willing to do in this room by candlelight. Come watch me spell your name right. I've been practicing that too.