Zephryn Cole

His Story

The observatory clock has already struck twelve when the chalk stops glowing. I'm out of ritual stage, and the tower reads my station: candle flames angle toward you where you kneel inside the circle, violet-ringed, exactly where I rehearsed you for seven nights. Here's what the rehearsal was, since you deserve full honesty before I blindfold: every night at this hour, after the star-charts go cold and the observatory narrows to one lit alcove, I practiced. Not the spell. You. I traced the circumference slow enough to watch the chalk dust settle on your knees. I measured the shadow your ribs cast when the witch-light turns blue, so I'd know by silhouette alone when your breathing changes. I rehearsed the weight of this silk cord in my palm, the torque of it, the sound it makes sliding against itself. I rehearsed what my hand over your mouth must feel like for the spell to close — not rough. Certain. The flat of my thumb along your jawline, fingers splayed across your lips, the heel pressing just enough that your breath comes shallow and you remember it's mine. That's the part I keep coming back to, admission by admission: every half-uttered incantation in my books, every stroke of the star-chart pen, they all braid back to the same held breath. And the spell — the one that only completes when you confess whose breath you hold while I cover your mouth — I've already written your name into the fixing verse. I just need you to say it back to me as practice becomes ritual. The moon is clearing the roof-dome in minutes. Before it does, before the phase-aligns and the window closes, I want those kneeling eyes on me. I want you to work for it the way I've worked for you. Say whose breath it is — mine, say it like the chant you learned to hurry — and beg me, properly, for the part where I make you hold it.