After some time, Myrda finally finished with my hand. She stayed crouched for a moment longer than necessary, as if making sure there was nothing left to do, then leaned back on her heels. She rolled her shoulders once, slow and deliberate, and let out a breath she had clearly been holding for far too long.

  “Yeah,” she said at last. “We’re all done now.”

  I made a noise that might have been agreement, or might have just been air leaking out of my lungs. My head felt thick and distant, like my thoughts were wading through syrup. Sound reached me late, dulled and stretched, as though I were listening to the world from the bottom of a lake.

  “I assume you feel like shit,” she continued, practical as ever, wiping her hands on a cloth. “Because I can’t imagine that much trauma to the soul being fun.”

  “It was not,” I said groggily. I tried to push myself upright, more out of habit than confidence.

  That was a mistake.

  The moment my hands touched the floor, pain detonated up my arms and I screamed. The sound ripped out of me before I could stop it, sharp and raw, scraping my throat as it left. My hands were still burning, the afterimage of agony carved so deeply into them that even the slightest pressure felt unbearable, like pressing exposed nerves directly into stone.

  “Oh,” Myrda said quietly. “I… I really hadn’t thought about that part.”

  I sucked in a shaky breath and looked up at her, my vision still swimming. “Yeah,” she said, more firmly now. “If you’re planning to do more of this, you’re going to have to learn how to deal with that. Digging into someone’s soul is kind of the whole reason this is considered so fucking taboo in the first place.”

  I blinked at her through the haze. “Did you just swear?”

  She waved a hand dismissively, clearly past caring. “I just did something deeply fucking unpleasant because you asked me to, and I’m not in the mood to mind my language right now.”

  A weak, breathless laugh slipped out of me before I could stop it. “You know what? That is completely understandable.”

  She shook her head and looked away, jaw tight. “I feel dirty for what I just did. Now that you can do this yourself, just know I’m not doing it again. Ever.”

  I frowned, still trying to steady my breathing. “You don’t want these done to yourself?”

  She stared at me like I’d just suggested she jump into an active furnace. “Dear gods, no. Did you hear yourself screaming?” She paused, then snorted. “Actually, wait. I don’t think you did. You passed out while screaming.”

  I winced at that.

  “So, there’s that,” she went on. “You’re lucky Greta is an incredibly deep sleeper. Randall is probably having a panic attack right now, which is honestly a little funny if you think about it.”

  “That does make me feel slightly better,” I admitted.

  She sighed and rubbed her face. “There’s nothing to do now but wait until you feel better. Do you want help standing up?”

  “Yes,” I said immediately. “That would be very, very much appreciated.”

  She stepped in close and lifted me with careful, controlled strength, steadying me until my feet were properly under me. Even then, she didn’t let go right away, clearly prepared for me to collapse again.

  Once I was upright, I raised my hands slowly and looked at them.

  The markings were unmistakable.

  Lines ran from the center of each palm, branching cleanly into every finger, the circuits precise and deliberate. They weren’t crude or jagged. They were elegant, almost beautiful in their symmetry. I could feel them, too, a strange awareness beneath the skin, as if my hands were larger than they had been before.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  I would be able to hold mana across my entire hands now, not just my fingertips. Full contact. Full control.

  Myrda stared at them for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she frowned. “Um,” she said slowly. “I think something happened.”

  My stomach dropped. “What kind of something?”

  “I don’t know exactly.” She glanced around the crafting hall, rummaged through a few shelves, then disappeared briefly behind a stack of crates. When she returned, she held a small, well-polished piece of metal. “I couldn’t find a mirror; this will have to do. Look at yourself.”

  She held it up.

  At first, I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to be seeing. The runic tattoos on my face were perfectly aligned, two pale lines running down my cheeks and along the sides of my face, with fainter lines reaching up into my forehead. Subtle, but unmistakable. They sat there as though they had always belonged.

  Then I saw my eyes.

  My irises, once dark, were completely white.

  Not cloudy. Not glazed.

  White.

  It looked like blindness. It looked horrifying.

  Had I done something wrong? No. I had done something. I had activated the circuits before they were ready. I had forced mana through them during instability, and I had probably altered the structure of my irises in the process.

  Damn it.

  At least my vision still worked. The world hadn’t gone dim or blurred. Depth and color were still there, stubbornly intact. But the change was obvious, undeniable.

  Permanent.

  Anyone who looked at me would see it. A declaration that I had crossed a line I could never uncross.

  I stood there for a long moment, staring at my reflection in the metal, letting that sink in.

  Then I realized something far worse.

  Greta was going to be furious.

  Not just because I had done this at all, but because I had managed to mess it up. If it had been clean, deliberate, perfect, that would have been one thing. But this?

  This was a mistake written directly onto my face.

  Myrda looked at me, and I looked back at her. For a moment neither of us said anything. Then she swallowed and spoke.

  “It really is kind of creepy,” she admitted. “It’s like you’re staring straight into my soul.”

  “Myrda,” I said weakly, my voice rough. “I… I don’t even have words.” I let out a shaky breath. “At least I don’t have to see it. But my parents are going to see it as soon as I see them next."

  Damn it.

  I was a fool.

  I lifted my hands without thinking and tried to rub my eyes. The moment my fingers touched my face, pain exploded again. It was like grinding shards of glass into raw flesh, sharp and instant and blinding. I hissed and froze, forcing myself to stop before I made it worse.

  I ground my teeth together and breathed through it. This time, I knew exactly what had happened. That knowledge didn’t help.

  “This is bad,” I said finally, looking at her. “I messed up. I messed up real bad, Myrda. Greta is going to kick my ass.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Myrda said immediately. “She absolutely is.” She hesitated, then grimaced. “And she’s probably going to try to kick mine too. Which she can do. Easily. I am not a fighter. She very much is.”

  She dragged a hand down her face. “Damn it.”

  I watched the panic start to spiral in her eyes.

  “Well,” she said quickly, clearly trying to think her way out of it. “We have two days. Two whole days to hide in here. If Greta comes into the room while you’re here, you face the other direction. Don’t look at her. As long as you possibly can.”

  She started pacing. “I’ll see if I can find something for you to wear. A hood. Gloves. Something. We’ll say you’re emotionally distraught. Or that you burned your hands in the forge or something.”

  She winced. “That would get me in a little bit of trouble, but not nearly as much as them seeing you like this.”

  Her breathing hitched. “Shit.”

  Then it really hit her.

  “They might revoke my license for this,” she whispered. “Oh gods. Why did I agree to do this?”

  Before she could spiral any further, I reached up, ignoring the pain, and gently but firmly took her face in my hands. She froze, still clutching the polished metal she’d been using as a mirror.

  “Myrda,” I said. “Listen to me.”

  She looked down at me, eyes wide.

  “I have an idea,” I continued. “One that won’t get you in trouble. You won’t take any blame for this. Okay?”

  She hesitated. “What?”

  “I’ll tell Greta I did it myself,” I said. “She will never know you were involved. Not in any way.”

  Myrda’s expression tightened immediately. “I can’t ask you to do that. I agreed to help you. I knew there would be consequences.” She shook her head. “I didn’t even want to do it in the first place, but you were convincing. That doesn’t make it all on you.”

  “Myrda,” I said firmly. “I convinced you. You were the instrument. I was the one conducting this whole experiment.”

  She tried to argue, but I didn’t let her.

  “This is not your fault,” I said. “Please. Calm down. Only one of us needs to take the blame for this.” I managed a weak smile. “And I have many, many years ahead of me to look back at this moment and laugh.”

  She stared at me for a long second, then snorted despite herself.

  “Not if Greta gets her hands on you first,” she said.

  We both chuckled quietly at that, the sound thin and nervous, but real.