Being an Arcane witch should come with a rulebook. Or at least hazard pay. My magic is changing, again, and not in the fun, “look what I can do now” way. More like the “hope you enjoy staring into the void” kind of way. The Morven curse is awake under my skin, whispering, waiting, and I’m doing my best not to unravel in public. Then a boy drops into a magical coma at the Carnival of Masks, and everything goes to hell. The magic clinging to him isn’t witch, fae, demon, or anything else I’ve ever seen. It’s something older. Wrong. Hungry. To find whoever, or whatever, did this, I’ll have to chase shadows through Gallows Gate, play nice with people I don’t trust, and deal with the very inconvenient fact that a certain dragonborne warrior keeps getting under my skin. And through it all, the curse inside me is shifting. Growing. If I can’t figure out how to control it… It will control me. No pressure. Just another day on the job.

Being the Merlin of Gallows Gate was supposed to get easier. It hasn’t. My magic has changed, again, and nobody can tell me if that’s a good thing or the kind of thing that gets you quietly erased by the Merlin Group. They’ve put me “under review,” which is bureaucratic language We think you’re a walking magical catastrophe. To be fair… they’re not wrong. And then there’s the stranger I can’t shake. He’s appeared out of nowhere, too calm, too curious, and far too invested in what’s happening to my magic. Nothing good ever comes from attention like that. Meanwhile, Eryk’s dragonborne legacy is tightening its claws around him. Dragons don’t like witches. Dragons really don’t like me. And the feeling is mutual. Now the Merlin Group is circling, the dragons are restless, and my magic is doing… whatever the hell it wants. If I can’t get control of any of it, I won’t just lose my license. I might lose the people I care about. Maybe even myself. No pressure. I’ve survived worse. Probably.