Cast Out by My Mate, Crowned by the Moon

Chapter 16 – Threading Light

Orric’s idea of “mild experiments” involved far more risk than the words suggested.

“We’re not poking a hornet’s nest,” he said, setting a bowl of water on the low table in his hut. “We’re looking at it from a safe distance.”

“Your metaphors are not reassuring,” I replied, easing onto the stool opposite him. “Also, hornets fly.”

“Lucky for us, corrupt magic doesn’t,” he said. “Usually.”

Sorren sat on a crate near the door, one boot braced against the frame. Not hovering. Just… present. His gaze was steady, his scent calm in that way that made my wolf stop pacing.

“Remind me why we’re doing this,” I said, flexing my fingers.

“Because Arik won’t be the last Beta who comes asking,” Orric said. “If we can find a way for your power to travel through another healer instead of you having to stand in the middle of every mess yourself, you might actually live long enough to be grumpy about grandpups.”

“Ambitious,” I muttered. “All right. What’s the plan?”

He dipped two fingers into the bowl, swirling until the surface stilled.

“Water remembers,” he said. “If I push a touch of my own power into it, I can feel minor imbalances. Fever. Infection. Nothing big. Today, you’re going to try to feel through me. Not around, not past. Through.”

I frowned. “Like… lending you my eyes?”

“More like standing behind me and peeking over my shoulder,” Orric said. “Without shoving me out of my own body.”

“Important distinction,” Sorren noted dryly.

Orric held out his free hand to me, palm up. His skin was warm, rough with old scars.

“Ready?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “Do it anyway.”

Our fingers closed.

I let my breath settle, counting heartbeats. One, two, three. The familiar quiet hum of my own power stirred in my chest, neither wild nor tame, just… mine.

“Don’t grab,” Orric murmured. “Brush. Think… spiderwebs, not fishing nets.”

“You’re really leaning into the nature imagery today,” I said, closing my eyes.

I followed the contact point of our hands inward, like tracing a line of heat. For a moment there was nothing but skin, bone, pulse. Then—

Orric’s magic. Not like mine. Earthier, rooted, a slow, steady current that smelled like dried herbs and smoke. If my power was moonlight through branches, his was loam and stone and the patient persistence of roots.

I hovered at the edges, careful.

“Good,” he said under his breath. “Now follow.”

He nudged his own magic down, into the cool of the water. I went with it, a half-step behind, not leading. The surface of the bowl shivered once, then stilled.

Images flickered—no, not images. Impressions. A map made of temperature and density.

“Feel anything?” Orric asked.

“Cold. Smooth.” I frowned. “A faint… snag? Like a knot in cloth.”

“That’s just your impatience,” he said. “Try again.”

I huffed, but sank deeper.

Slowly, the sensation sharpened. The water itself was neutral, but where Orric’s magic moved, it lit up in my awareness like faint silver veins. I stayed just behind it, a shadow echo, not pushing, not claiming.

For a moment, it worked.

“I see it,” I whispered. “Not with eyes. But— I can tell where your power is, where it hits resistance. There.” I pointed blindly at a spot in the bowl.

Orric let out a low whistle. “She’s right. That side’s cooler. My own sensing barely caught it.”

Pride flickered in my chest. Then, without warning, something inside me lunged.

Not me, exactly. Reflex. The part of my power that had learned—through Maelor, through the mountain, through a dozen desperate healings—that when it felt a wrongness, it fixed it. Fast.

The silver thread surged forward, racing ahead of Orric’s, slicing through his gentler current.

The water snapped cold. Pain spiked up my arm—not mine, not his, just too much.

“Liora,” Orric hissed. “Easy.”

I yanked back, heart hammering, severing the contact in a jerky motion that sloshed the bowl. Water splashed over the rim, darkening the wood.

For a second, the world tilted. Power roared in my ears, then cut off.

“Liora.” Sorren’s voice, low and firm, at my shoulder now. His hand hovered near my back, not quite touching. “Breathe.”

I dragged air into my lungs. The hut snapped back into focus—the rough walls, the hanging bundles of herbs, Orric’s pinched expression.

“Did I—” My voice came out hoarse. “Did I hurt you?”

Orric flexed the fingers of his wet hand, then his wrist. “No nerve damage. Congratulations. You only nearly steamrolled me.”

Shame burned hot and immediate. “I’m sorry. It— I felt the imbalance and something just… went.”

“I saw,” he said, still too calm. “That’s what we needed to know.”

Sorren’s gaze cut to him. “Meaning?”

“Meaning her magic still thinks ‘problem’ equals ‘mine to fix,’” Orric said. “Even when she’s hitching a ride.”

I curled my damp hand into a fist to hide the shaking. “So this won’t work.”

“I didn’t say that.” Orric wiped his hand on a cloth, eyes thoughtful. “It means we don’t start with other healers. We start with something that can’t scream if she overcorrects.”

“Like what,” I asked, “your herb jars?”

“Plants,” he said. “Dead wood. Stones in the training ring. Maybe the old ward-trees at the border, if we’re feeling reckless later.”

“Reckless later,” Sorren repeated. “I love this timeline.”

I stared at the water, at my distorted reflection in it. “I don’t like that it grabbed like that,” I admitted. “It felt… close to what Maelor did. Taking. Overriding.”

Orric’s gaze softened. “Difference is, you stopped. And you hated it.”

“Intent doesn’t erase impact,” I said, the phrase a familiar echo of old arguments with Seris.

“No,” he agreed. “But it guides practice. You’re not trying to own anything.” He tapped my chest, lightly. “You just haven’t taught this yet that the world is not made entirely of emergencies.”

Sorren huffed. “To be fair, the world has not helped with that lesson.”

I snorted despite myself.

“Same time tomorrow?” Orric asked.

“You’re sure you want your soul nearly steamrolled again?” I said.

“I’ve had worse,” he said lightly. “And we go slower. We build you a habit that isn’t ‘fix everything until you fall down.’”

He held out his hand again—not for another attempt, but in something like a truce.

I took it. His grip was firm, grounding.

As I stepped back out into the camp, the morning had fully unfolded. Vela barking at trainees. Nyssa hanging upside down from a low branch to sharpen her knives. Pups arguing over the last berry tart.

My wolf paced, unsettled but awake.

“You all right?” Sorren asked, falling into step beside me.

“Not thrilled about discovering I have a magical hero complex,” I said. “But I suppose it fits the rest of the mess.”

He smiled, faint and warm. “You’ve always had that. Now you just have more voltage.”

“Comforting.”

He bumped his shoulder lightly against mine. “You’re learning to aim it,” he said. “And to say no. That’s what makes you dangerous to the right people.”

I thought of Blackclaw’s stone. Of Maelor’s altar. Of Arik’s hopeful eyes. Of Rian’s small hand in mine, Lysa whispering Wolfscar like a spell.

Dangerous, I thought, to anyone who wants me quiet.

The idea didn’t scare me as much as it once would have.

“Fine,” I said. “Tomorrow we teach my magic the revolutionary concept of boundaries.”

Sorren’s laugh followed me as I limped toward the training ring, where Vela was already waving me over with entirely too much enthusiasm.

Being a Luna who wasn’t a leash, it turned out, meant spending a ridiculous amount of time teaching everyone—including myself—that we were allowed to be more than what the world had carved us to be.

Exhausting.

Worth it.