We spoke again, and again, and again. In no time at all you became the highlight of every week, then every day. I sought you out in the library and you were always there, waiting for me.

You would never tell me how you got in or out of the castle, but you were never caught and slowly I tried to stop worrying so much. It was easier to just focus on our conversations, on reading, and on spending time together.

You had so many questions, and you seemed enthralled by every answer I gave. You would ask about the littlest things, like the taxonomy of local insects, and act enamored with me when I embarrassed myself by going on for hours. You wanted to know everything about my world, and I was only too happy to share. I would point you to the best books for a subject and you would read them, but you would always want to hear what I had to say about it, what I thought of the information contained within the books I was recommending.

No one had ever listened to me with that kind of sincere desire to hear me speak, that level of respect and care and attention. When I was younger and more sociable, it was easy to tell when someone was just humoring my interests for the sake of meaningless political connections, but you… you weren’t like that.

Even now I’m not sure it was a lie. You found my passions so endearing that you encouraged me to keep sharing even when nothing about the topic could have benefited you. Obscure craft techniques, history, even philosophy and law. Those last two always sparked your interest further, and when it came to philosophy in particular you had your own stories to share.

Our meetings became more frequent, and longer, long enough to grow hungry in the midst of them. It was easy to procure meals from the kitchens, and that became a new topic of fascination for you: you wanted to try everything we had to offer, from roasted pheasant with stewed vegetables to the plum dumplings that were my favorite.

Of course, it would be irresponsible to eat in the library, so we began having conversations in a nearby sitting room that went largely unused. As I grew more comfortable with you, and as I began to worry once more about our conversations being interrupted, I worked up the nerve to suggest that I host our meetings in the tea room that was part of my personal chambers. You were, of course, delighted at the idea.

And so our conversations continued, and I satisfied your curiosity again and again, but there was one topic that everything always circled back to: magic. You were hungry for it, and I covered the basics as best I could, then the more advanced theory. I told you about the clans and the sorcerer bloodlines, and the affinities that were central to everything.

I avoided speaking of my own affinity, and you could tell. I was evasive, always hastening to mention some historical example or the affinities of neighboring clans or even the classical affinities of Dawnbringer and Bladesinger. But never my own, never referencing myself in those dialogues.

We were having tea when you finally pried it out of me. We were discussing something banal, and while I excitedly droned on you reached for your cup and, distracted watching me speak, accidentally knocked it from its platter. Of course, with time I’ve begun to suspect that the act was premeditated, a measured attempt to goad me into using my powers. The moment was too perfect, your response too precise.

The teacup tumbled from its perch, porcelain and payload destined for the floor, but my shadow lunged for the object while I sat paralyzed. My magic, acting on instinct and immediate panicked desire to keep you happy, reached out with tendrils of darkness and seized the cup, absorbing spilled drink and carefully bringing the cup back to its place upon the table.

As soon as I registered what had happened I banished the tendrils back to my shadow, but it was too late; you had seen, and you had that glint in your eye which I had learned by then meant you had a topic in mind and wouldn’t cease until you knew everything about it.

“Why do you never talk about your affinities?” you asked me.

I looked away from you, nervous. Rationally, I understood that you could have asked anyone in the castle or beyond about the strange princess and her strange magic. There was a part of me that was warmed at your wanting to hear the story from me before any of them. But still. Still I hated the idea of telling you. I didn’t want to ruin… whatever this was.

“Do you feel ashamed?” you continued when I didn’t answer. “You shouldn’t, if you do. You have an amazing power, Reska, and I’ve only seen the barest hint of what you’re capable of. What’s to hide?”

I grimaced, still not meeting your gaze. “Everything. It… it’s not natural. It shouldn’t exist. I don’t want to have this power.”

“Why?” you pressed me. “Who taught you to hate your magic?”

I stared down at the floor, silent, dreading the conversation to follow. Finally I murmured, “You really aren’t going to let this one go, are you?” I looked back up in time to catch you shaking your head.

“Not a chance. This means too much to me to let it lie.”

I sighed and slumped in my seat. “Okay. I… I have three affinities: Shadow, Starlight, and Blood. The one you just saw is Shadow, and it’s wrong. Shadow magic shouldn’t exist, Homura. The way it reached out just then, that wasn’t conscious, that wasn’t me, that was an affinity acting on its own. That’s not supposed to happen outside of children. It’s aberrant.”

You smirked. “I thought it was pretty cute. It saved a bit of cleaning, and brought my cup back all nice and whole. I should thank your Shadow.”

I gritted my teeth. You weren’t getting it. You didn’t have the context for this, didn’t have the history for it. “Homura, when I say this magic shouldn’t exist, I mean it. Humans can’t use this magic, not normally. No one else alive has an affinity for Shadow, because anyone who tries to build that affinity dies. But I was born with it, in a family where most are born with Sunlight.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That seems more impressive than ostracizing. What’s the catch?”

“Shadow magic is…. it’s the magic of the Abyss. Of the Leviathans. This magic is evil, and dangerous, and hideous. Nothing good and true can come from the Abyss.”

You watched me with those discerning dark eyes, taking in every detail of my body language and facial expressions. After a moment of contemplation you reached out and took one of my hands in yours. “These are things you’ve heard from others, aren’t they? Stories you’ve been told. Whispers and rumors. But how does your magic feel to you? Does it feel evil? Does it feel hideous?”

For all the hesitation and doubt and self-loathing that haunted me, I couldn’t lie to you. I admitted, “No. It feels… natural. Like a second skin, or a second pair of limbs. It’s easier to cast with than my other affinities, more responsive, quicker, stronger… and there’s a comfort to it. I feel safe, in the dark. But… it gets lonely.” I gently extricated my hand and said, “I want to show you something.”

You nodded and let me go. “Anything you like.”

I rose from my chair and took a deep breath, incredibly anxious and yet… surprisingly excited. I’d never shown this to anyone before, for all the time I’d spent getting it right. It had always been mine alone, and my heart ached to think that finally, finally, I could share it with someone who might appreciate it.

“This is my second affinity: Starlight.” I began calling magic to me, drawing on Shadow and Starlight and bringing them together. The room darkened, that part of my magic responding before the spell was even part-formed.

In the growing dark I spoke my incantation, lovingly crafted over a period of years, a full decade. “The night sky stretches like an endless sea of Shadow, deep and all-encompassing. From horizon to horizon, the drawing dark heralds the death of day. This darkness is vast, greater than all the worlds in the Dreaming Sea. This darkness is the Abyss, where Leviathans once held sway, and though the old gods are dead their hunger lives on, swallowing the light with every nightfall.”

The dark thickened, shadows swirling and intensifying. My shadows crept up the walls to snuff every sunstone in sight, sweeping across the room like the death of day. Then, there was only darkness, deep and absolute.

“But though the night is full of horrors, and though the hunger of dead gods steals the sun, hope is not lost. For within the dark shine points of light that cannot be consumed: the stars, numberless and gleaming, to keep us safe ‘till morning comes. Each star, the soul of a Titan, bound by the Leviathans but never broken. For even in the deepest darkness, even in the lowest depths, the light always endures.”

And within the dark, a thousand stars blazed to life. A thousand points of light, shining bright amidst the void, and lines of gleaming silver starlight connecting them. The darkened room became the night sky, a star chart projected onto the walls and ceiling and floor. A map of constellations, made from countless hours spent poring over records and stargazing from my balcony.

You breathed out in awe at my creation, and I let a bit of pride trickle in. It was my great work, the one good thing I’d built with the whole of my existence, and I finally had someone to show it to.

“It gets lonely,” I told you, “being in the dark. Reaching for the sun and knowing you’ll never hold it in your hands. But the sun isn’t the only source of light. My father told me that story, that I just told you. And I’ll never call the sun like he can, but I can pluck the stars from the sky and cast them in my orbit. And… it helps. I don’t feel so alone.”

You reached out to touch a constellation, marveling at it, then turned back to me. “This is incredible, Reska. You are incredible. This is a work of art that I could never hope to create.”

I blushed, still not used to compliments despite your willingness to use them on me. I pointed at the constellation you had touched and told you, “That one’s the Sleeping Rabbit. The one just above it is the Silver Loom, and next to that is the Crooked Candle.”

You gave me a shrewd look. “Can you name every single one of these constellations?”

My blush deepened, but I admitted, “Yes. I, um… I spent a lot of time memorizing them. There’s something about it that just… brings me comfort. They’re beautiful. They make the night sky beautiful. And…” I cringed at what I was about to say, but committed to it, “...I think there’s something poetic about how you can only see them at night. The stars are beautiful, but they’re made beautiful by the dark surrounding them.”

You moved closer to me and reached out a hand to brush a strand of hair out of my face. “You’re beautiful, too,” you murmured to me. “And I think the world is more beautiful for having you in it, just like the night sky and those stars.”

Your flirting flustered me so much that I lost concentration on the spell. The shining stars flickered and faded and the smothering darkness retreated to my shadow. Your gaze held me, pinned me, and my heart beat faster than I think it ever had before. In a panic, not sure how to deal with feelings that were so alien to me, I blurted, “Three! I have three affinities!”

You chuckled, but returned to your seat and released me from that piercing gaze. “You wanna tell me about your third, then?”

I sat down as well, face definitely red, and took a sip of tea to calm my nerves. “My third affinity is Blood. Traditionally, Blood has been associated with life and death, bonds, conflict, and sacrifice. It is also one of the three affinities used by the Lidless Eye, the loremasters who record all information about the nature of magic.”

You tilted your head, that curious look on your face. “Interesting. But that doesn’t tell me what it means to you, Reska. Aren’t these supposed to be personal in some way?”

I winced, caught out. “Well, yes. It’s just… it’s not that interesting a story, not compared to the last.”

You tapped your chin, contemplative. “Let’s see if I can puzzle it out, then, yes? You were born with an affinity for Shadow, and you’ve been made a pariah because of it. You tried to develop Sunlight and failed, so you seized on the light of the stars instead. So what’s Blood have to offer?” You snapped your fingers and grinned. “Got it: healing magic. You wanted to be a healer, like your bloodline is known for, right?”

I slowly nodded. “I did. I… I wanted to prove that I could put some good into the world. That I could heal, not just harm.” I stared at my injured hand, still not yet fully recovered, and flexed unsteady fingers. “I was wrong. My Blood is pain, sacrifice, and self-destruction. It’s the very quintessence of harm.”

Again your eyes took in everything. It always fascinated me, the way you could flip between careful observation and animated interest with such speed. When you spoke again, it seemed on the surface like a complete topic change, but I could read the implicit point in your line of questioning.

You asked, “Have you ever felt that awful energy build and build and build, filling you up ‘till you feel like bursting, ‘till you’d do anything to make it go away? Have you ever wanted to lash out at the world so fucking badly, like it’s a fire burning in your veins, so you turned that inward rather than risking hurting someone else?” The last question was gentle, soft, caring. “Have you ever just needed the release?”

I felt mortified. I felt seen. I felt like any moment that look of sympathy would turn to disgust. Hesitantly, fearfully, I whispered, “Yes.”

You slid your jacket from your shoulders and showed your arms to me, and I saw the scattered patternless mess of scar tissue adorning both. Dozens of scars: thin and thick, pale and pink, long and slight. “Yeah,” you said, with a quiet altogether unlike you. “Me too.”

“You… you’ve…?” I was stunned.

“I know what it’s like, to feel something so intensely that all you can do is blot it out with pain. I’ve been there. I’m still there.” You leaned in closer, capturing me with those beautiful dark eyes, completely serious. “You are not alone.”

Tears started to fall from my eyes, unbidden and unwanted. I felt ashamed of my emotions, but more than that I felt so very grateful that I had met you. It was like a flood, all the feelings I’d been burying now bursting up.

You rose from your seat and came next to mine, knelt beside me. You put your arms around me and held me tight, hugged me like I hadn’t been hugged in years and years. “You’re not alone anymore.”

I cried harder. I finally stopped holding back, and the tears came so easily. I hugged you back, and my self-control fell away entirely as I blubbered, “It’s not fair. Wh-why are you so nice to me? I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve you.”

“Shhh. It’s okay. It’s okay. You deserve the world, Reska. You deserve so much better than you have. But I’m here for you now. You’re not alone.” You rubbed my shoulder gently, comfortingly.

I cried, and you comforted me, and the flood of emotions was overwhelming and horrible, but as I wiped the last tear away I felt lightened, almost cleansed. I smiled at you. “Thank you, Homura. For everything. I… I want to repay the deep favor that your presence has been to me. I want to help you develop your first affinity.”

You smiled back at me. “I think I know what I want it to be, now, thanks to you. Reska… teach me your affinity for Blood.”

And so I would.