Chapter 35
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
MORGANA
T he week came and went. They were readying us for our journey, but I stayed in the library that loomed over me like a sanctuary. The quiet stillness of it all soothed me. I was able to hide away in the dark confines, illuminated with nothing more than sunlight through the dusty windows and a lone candle on the table. Aster had left me a note from the doctor outside my door.
Fortunately, I was not a Sinclair, nor did I have ties to them. That meant I didn’t have to be quite so disgusted about my attraction toward him. It didn’t help all that much, but that was beside the point.
Unfortunately, they were uncertain with regards to me being cursed or not.
Atlas’s invitation was heavy in my pocket, this incessant reminder that I was being watched no matter where I went. That these people had ulterior motives that could be wicked enough to break me at the mere thought. The only distraction to the terror was obsessing over the history texts to better understand Vespera.
Verdantis had the world’s most accessible and uncensored text, but nothing compared to the books in the palace. This history was unwritten, tales that had been spoken of in legends to scare children and not as fact. But no matter how many books I picked up, legends turned to truth. And truth would lead to answers.
There were even books recounting the Sinclair bloodline and the gods that cursed them. The wars that predated our kingdom’s creation. The decisions made by the Sinclair house that both doomed them and secured their power. The words swirled before my eyes, painting a vivid picture of betrayal, power, and tragedy that spanned generations. The weight of the revelations pressed down on me, each word a heavy chain binding me to a legacy of suffering. Despite all of this information, there was no explanation behind my involvement. My brother’s involvement. Why we were fated to such a curse—or if our magic was a curse in the first place.
I brought my face into my hands and rubbed at my swollen, tired eyes. Images of Galen flickered through my mind—recollections of our better days. When we were free from our abusive upbringing, when he had found a way out of the mines and into the Umbran Guard.
“You’ve really enlisted into the Guard?” I remembered asking him. My body had turned cold at the thought. We weren’t at war, but so many of those soldiers died. So many . Vespera was a greater threat than any war could bring. “If you truly wished to leave me, Galen, perhaps a crime and a trip to the gallows would have sufficed. At least I could mourn you as a criminal sullied by a cruel crown.”
“You know I’d never leave you, Morg. I’d just haunt you from the grave anyway.”
I sucked in a breath and lifted my head, wiping away the tears that betrayed my resolve. My ears rang as the memory refused to silence. As the idea of a normal life alongside my brother overwhelmed me.
“They have this awful gruel at the training camp, ” he’d told me after returning from his first few weeks away. “But there’s a woman. She seems… nice. ”
I cursed beneath my breath and stood, pacing back and forth and yanking at my hair.
“Oh, don’t look at me so grim, Morg. They assigned me to clean up rotten bones and rusty mirrors. I’ll be away for a few weeks at a time—everything will be okay.”
As the shadows elongated in the library, a sudden clang echoed through the stillness, jolting me from the depths of my thoughts. The sound of clattering metal reverberated through the stone walls, drawing me to the window where I found Aster training in the courtyard below. Well, had been training. His sword was still clattering against the ground as he paced back and forth, hands grappled through his hair. From here, I could see the sheen of sweat lining his skin and the curled frown that sharpened his face.
Served him right. I hope he continued to frown. I pushed open the window and leaned over the ledge, arms crossed as I knelt. I recalled how warm my magic felt last night—perhaps the one and only time that desire and normality dared to make me believe this place could be safe. I closed my eyes and envisioned it.
And then the warmth returned, pooling in my palms like spring water. I glanced down at them, the shadows dancing across my skin and tittering up at me. I lifted my hand to eye level so I could watch it swirl around my wrist, my fingers—whatever part it could coil around like a snake. I choked on the harmonious chaos of terror and intrigue. This was the power that murdered the arcanist in the morgue for no reason—disguised as a defense mechanism. This was, however, also the puppeteer that brought forth such raw yearning that almost made me succumb to the touch of my captor.
My glare hardened on Aster down below. I flattened my palm, watching the dark magic swirl into a round ball. It danced there, awaiting my command.
I blew on it, like flour to the air, and it dissipated briefly before forming the vision of a serpent. It slithered toward Aster with haste before breaking apart into insect-sized dots. The shadows swarmed him—bees protecting their nest.
Aster cried out and swatted his hand, swirling around to break free. He fell onto his side and thrashed his feet, his own shadows bleeding off and cocooning around him. I barked out a laugh, standing to behold the chaos I’d just caused. The terror I’d inflicted on Aster, even if it was no more harmless than a prank.
I did that.
Without the aid of his cold, cruel touch.
I called out in victory and slammed the windows shut, racing out of the library before someone came to find out what had caused all the noise. My skin was still hot where my shadows had danced, and I held onto the sensation. It reminded me I was alive.
At the very least, I was convinced I was not utterly hopeless.