Hiding My Twin Heirs from the Ruthless Prince

CHAPTER 84

POV: Henry

I tell myself not to get attached.

That is the first rule of studying power from the outside: observe, record, disengage. I’ve lived by it for years, moving from archive to archive, tavern to ruin, collecting scraps of theory the way other men collect debts. Power destroys those who want it too badly. Power devours those who think they can love it.

Cordelia breaks that rule the second time she walks down the tavern stairs.

She doesn’t look around this time. She doesn’t hesitate at the threshold. She comes straight to the bar and takes the stool beside mine like it has always been hers.

“You were right,” she says, low. “About compression.”

I keep my voice even. “Most storms resist being told what they are.”

She snorts softly. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

The barkeep glances our way. “Same?”

“Yes,” Cordelia says before I can answer.

I watch her fingers as she waits—steady, precise, no tremor at all. Whatever fury fuels her power, it’s been honed into something dangerous and beautiful.

“Show me,” she says once the drinks arrive.

“Show you what?”

“Why it hurts less when I narrow it,” she replies. “You talked theory. I want application.”

I hesitate. “Not here.”

“Then where?”

I nod toward the back corridor. “Private room. No wards. Thick stone.”

She studies me for a long moment. “If you’re lying—”

“I’ll die,” I say calmly. “That’s the risk I’m taking.”

Something in her eyes softens—not trust, not quite—but allowance.

“Fine,” she says. “Teach.”

The room smells of damp and old smoke. I chalk a rough circle on the floor while she watches from the wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“Magic responds to intention,” I begin. “But intention is not emotion. Emotion is fuel. Intention is direction.”

“I know that,” she says.

“You know it instinctively,” I correct. “Not structurally.”

She rolls her eyes. “Words.”

“Structure keeps words from becoming graves,” I reply.

That earns a sharp smile.

“Stand here,” I say, gesturing to the circle. “And don’t push yet.”

She steps in. The air tightens immediately.

I swallow. “Good. Now listen—not to me. To the resistance.”

“Resistance is pain,” she says.

“Yes,” I agree. “But pain has texture. It tells you where you’re wasteful.”

She exhales slowly. The room hums.

“Now,” I say, “thread it. Don’t force.”

The warmth coils outward from her like a held breath. I feel it brush my skin—not burning, not wild. Curious.

“Again,” I murmur. “Slower.”

She winces. “It wants to snap.”

“Then you’re still leading with anger.”

Her jaw tightens. “Anger keeps me alive.”

“For now,” I say gently. “Obsession keeps people alive too. Right up until it kills them.”

She snaps her eyes open. “Careful.”

“I am,” I repeat, the same words I used the first night. “That’s why I’m here.”

She tries again. The power narrows. The hum drops in pitch.

“There,” I say. “You feel that?”

“Yes,” she breathes. “It’s… quieter.”

“Because you’re not shouting at it.”

She releases the flow abruptly and staggers. I catch her elbow without thinking.

The warmth flares—warning, instinctive.

“Don’t,” she says sharply.

I let go immediately. “Sorry.”

Silence settles between us, charged and fragile.

“I don’t need saving,” she says.

“I know,” I reply. “That’s not why I’m here.”

She studies my face like she’s looking for a lie and finding none.

***

We meet after that.

Not every night. Not predictably. She appears when she wants answers and disappears when she’s had enough. I teach her runes scratched into stone and ash, sigils that bend without breaking, the difference between curses that rot and curses that bind.

“Never carve in anger,” I tell her one night.

She laughs softly. “You don’t ask much.”

“Anger is blunt,” I say. “Precision is mercy.”

“For who?” she asks.

“For you.”

She doesn’t respond, but the next rune she draws is careful. Balanced. Deadly in its restraint.

We argue.

“Your problem,” she snaps once, “is that you think restraint is morality.”

“And your problem,” I counter, “is that you think control means domination.”

She leans in close, eyes bright. “Doesn’t it?”

“No,” I say quietly. “It means choice.”

The word hangs between us.

Sometimes, late, she talks.

Not about Astoria. Not about the tower. But about hunger. About the way power tastes different when it obeys. About how fear used to own her and now… doesn’t.

“I like it,” she admits one night, staring into the candle flame. “Having them step back.”

“I know,” I say.

She looks at me sharply. “You disapprove.”

“I worry,” I correct.

“About what?”

“About the day stepping back isn’t enough.”

Her gaze drops. “That day already came.”

I don’t push.

I shouldn’t. That’s another rule.

It takes longer for me to realize when the rules stop applying.

It happens gradually—in the way I notice her absence too acutely, in the way I keep notes specifically about her techniques instead of general theory. In the way my chest tightens when she bleeds through the warding backlash and waves it off like it’s nothing.

“You’re pushing too hard,” I tell her after she nearly collapses against the wall.

She shrugs. “It works.”

“So does poison,” I snap. “Once.”

She glares. “You don’t get to scold me.”

“I get to warn you,” I say. “Because someone should have.”

Her expression flickers—something raw, unguarded.

Then it’s gone.

“Teach,” she says. “Or step aside.”

I teach.

Because the truth is, I can’t stop.

One night, after too much ale and too little distance, she says, “You don’t look at me like the others.”

I keep my eyes on the table. “How do they look at you?”

“Like a weapon,” she replies. “Or a prize.”

“And me?”

I meet her gaze then. “Like a problem I want to solve.”

She laughs softly. “That might be worse.”

“Probably,” I admit.

Silence stretches.

“Why do you stay?” she asks suddenly.

I don’t answer right away.

“Because,” I say finally, “you’re standing at the edge of something, and no one ever taught you where it drops off.”

Her voice is quiet. “And you think you can?”

“No,” I say. “I think I can point.”

She studies me for a long time.

“Be careful, Henry,” she says. “You’re getting invested.”

I smile faintly. “So are you.”

She doesn’t deny it.

Later, alone, I write by candlelight, hands stained with chalk and ink.

Cordelia responds to instruction. Obsession risk elevated. Emotional detachment eroding.

I stare at the last line and strike it through.

This isn’t a study anymore. It’s a choice. And I am already too far inside it to pretend otherwise.