Zekia played with the hem of her dress.

“You know that’s not true,” she said quietly. “You know that you’re not a vessel for someone else’s power.”

Wesley sat up against the wall in a way that made his ribs hurt a little less.

“Wesley,” she said, her voice a mix of nerves and joy. “Don’t you feel it? Your magic isn’t borrowed or stolen. It’s awakened.”

“I’m not falling for any more of your mind games.”

Zekia shook her head and took three quick steps toward him, almost excited. She bent down, her dress pooling into his blood.

“You’re a true Crafter, Wesley,” she said. “You’re one of us. I knew it the second I got into your mind. I’ve been wanting to tell you for days, but you’ve been pretty mad and I didn’t know how to say it.”

Wesley shook his head. “Bullshit.”

“It’s not,” Zekia promised. “I swear it on the Many Gods and on my life and on everything else in the realms. You’re not like the other buskers and crooks. You’re like us, Wesley. You’re just like me.”

An Intuitcrafter.

Wesley wanted to tell her she was even more crazy than he’d thought, but the more he looked at the earnestness in her face and the more he tried to rack his mind, the more nothing else made sense.

A true Crafter.

As the thought raced through his mind, the magic inside of him sparked.

Yes, it whispered, after so long silent. Yes.

Was that why magic had always felt like home to him?

Not just a skill Wesley needed to learn and master, but a part of his soul that had always been missing. When Ashwood first took him from the streets and taught him to be a busker, it was like a fire inside of Wesley started to burn too hot and fierce to ever dissipate.

He touched the silver staves running up his arm, so similar to the ones Zekia had.

They had appeared during the shadow moon, when his power felt infinite and wondrous. He’d been so worried they would disappear one day and that he’d become that empty shell again, but they hadn’t. They’d stayed and the power inside of him hadn’t left either.

You’re like us.

You’re one of us.

Wesley had never belonged to anything or anyone.

He’d never had anything he hadn’t stolen or taken with blood. Except for magic.

Magic had always felt so very much his, even when it was just a trick bag or a charm he kept in his back pocket. Each and every one felt like air in his lungs.

Now he finally knew why.