Chapter 19 Too Much Skin in the Game
Too Much Skin in
the Game
T
he next morning, I walk fast through the halls, heart pounding, the memory of Azaire burning just beneath my skin. I’d like to tell someone—I’d like to scream it from the rooftops.
I can touch someone.
Yet I still watch my feet as I walk.
With each step, I refrain from meeting gazes. With each step, I think of the horrible thing I’ve done.
I can touch someone, but not much has changed besides that. I suppose that’s life, a series of small changes until one day you wake up, and nothing is what it used to be.
All I hope is one day it happens to me.
I’m okay with that. I’m more than okay with that. This is the only small change in the last five years that I’ve been excited for.
That I’ve enjoyed in any regard.
I’d scream it, if I thought I could scream.
For now, I will whisper—and I will never utter a word of what I did to Azaire.
It’s a promise I make to myself as the whole world goes white.
The light is blinding, searing my vision until there’s no up or down, no hallway or floor beneath me.
I see nothing. I say nothing. But from my mouth, words spill like rain, torn from a part of me I didn’t know was there.
The sound is muffled and monotone. Distant.
As if I’m underwater, drenched in the rain drops.
Words tear through my lungs, anyhow.
“Time fractures with the stone.
The one who leaves returns alone.
When the cracks in the universe divide,
love will be your demise.”
My throat constricts. The air leaves my lungs. The world freezes. Infinite cold. My family stands. Spiders crawl from their mouths. Their eyes go white. Their dead bodies fall.
Azaire is on top.
Eerily, slowly, his head turns to me.
“Stop this,” his corpse croaks.
Then the image burns, the ash falling away with the rest of the ruins. I am left looking at Desdemona, who stares back in shock.
I’m not breathing.
Or is she not breathing?
I’m not sure anymore.
I run.
Is this real?
Was Azaire real? Has this all been a—
“A prophecy,” the boy interrupts me, making his first appearance in ages. The relief feels like a lullaby Ma used to sing, gentle but haunting, and I don’t know if I love or hate it. “I could have helped.”
“How could you have helped?” The question scrapes through me, breathless even in my mind. My feet strike the floor over and over, the rhythm relentless, turning into a song I can’t stop playing.
“I felt it coming. I could have prepared you for this feeling.”
The corridors stretch endlessly ahead, but I can’t outrun Desdemona. Fear drips from her like sweat in a way that tells me I will never feel the end of it—of her. As if I feel her very soul, her life. I turn every corner, and I still can’t escape it.
Or is this fear mine?
I can’t rid the bitter taste from the back of my throat. I can’t rid the horror from my head. All I can do is race through the halls.
Until I spot Calista far ahead of me. I run to her, grabbing her shoulders and pulling her toward me.
Calista stares up at me with horror, retreating before she recognizes me.
She shakes her head, confused. “Wendy—”
“We need to talk.”
Calista releases a deep exhale, falling back into herself. Then, she looks past me.
“Now,” I demand.
Calista smiles, rolling her eyes as she laughs. “All right.”
She finds no humor in it. None at all.
She’s scared and putting on a facade. Her laugh is a distraction. She’s smart enough to know that laughing won’t stop me from feeling her terror. Yet she does it anyway.
I pull her through the halls to the first uninhabited place I see—a classroom. We sit against a window, the sun shining on our backs.
My—their—emotions scream at me from just beyond the threshold. Everything, everywhere, all at once, no matter what, always. I feel every foot step, every breath. Every tug of a sleeve, every shifted shirt.
All of it, all at once—all that is theirs becoming mine.
There is no escaping it. There is hardly relief. At least there’s relief at all.
There wasn’t before Azaire.
On top of everything from afar, Calista is scared, too. Was it her fear that pierced through me, and not Desdemona’s? I can’t tell anything apart anymore.
The world is blurry, but it must be my eyes.
“Wendy?” Calista’s words echo through the vast room.
I see the world for the first time since I sat. The classroom is dim, the only light from the sun through the curtains. Rows of escalating seats extend before us.
“What is it?” she asks.
Shaking my head, I prepare to tell her, a mirror to what we did a year ago. She came to me because I was the only escape route, the only person she could confide in without fearing what would happen if I broke that trust.
Like then, she is the only person who won’t share what I say now.
“You can’t tell anyone.” I speak fast. “Especially Lucian.”
This can’t get back to Azaire. Not if what I felt means anything.
Not if the prophecy is true.
Calista folds her arms over her chest. Defensively, she says, “I don’t tell Lucian anything.”
I don’t care for her resistance. I need to say something, tell someone.
“There was a prophecy.” I watch as her features turn in shock. It’s the reaction I expected. She’ll do anything now to hear the truth. “Before I tell you more, you have to give me your word.”
“What is the prophecy?” she demands, disguised as a question.
“This is important.”
She doesn’t want to give me her word, for obvious reasons. Once she does, there is no taking it back. Offering a favor, or their word, for a Royal is far different than a regular citizen. They are forced to uphold it, against their will.
It’s a magic, of sorts.
Calista rolls her eyes as she contemplates. I can almost feel the mechanics of her brain wiring.
“Fine,” she breathes. “I give you my word, Wendy Estridon, that I will not repeat what you say to Lucian Aibek.” She raises her eyebrows, as if saying, go on.
“Or Azaire Wenejad.”
Calista scowls, reluctantly adding, “Or Azaire Wenejad.”
I sigh, leaning against the wall. “I don’t know how to explain it.”
Nor do I want to.
“Figure it out,” she huffs. “I didn’t offer my favor for nothing.”
I expected no less from Calista. I find my words.
“It felt like the end…” My throat tightens. “Of everything.” My eyes sting with tears, and I swipe them away with the back of my hand.
I recite the prophecy with a shudder, then say, “The first line—time fractures with the stone. Maybe we can stop it.”
“Whose prophecy?” Calista asks, her voice casual as she examines her nails—but her emotions are reeling. She’s scared, confused, and already calculating her next move.
I’m sure I’ve trusted the right person. Cunning is practically a synonym for Calista.
Reaching out, I grab her hand, pulling it from her gaze. I lock eyes with her, my voice steady. “You can’t hide from me, Calista.”
She yanks her hand back, her glare darting to my gloved one like it’s something vile. “That’s precisely why I stay away.”
It’s not a lie, there’s just more to the story.
But I already know the name of the chapters.
“It was Desdemona’s prophecy.”
Calista’s eyes widen as a small smile pulls at her lips. There’s a moment of smug righteousness. Then she tips her head back and laughs. It’s not fake, only embellished.
“Oh my gods!” she exclaims, returning her head to its natural position. Beneath her smugness, there’s that familiar feeling of inadequacy creeping back into her.
“Her necklace,” she finishes, as if it’s the obvious conclusion.
My voice is tinged with skepticism as I ask, “What necklace?”
Calista places a hand on her chest, her fingers lightly brushing the fabric.
“She wears it…” Her words drop to a whisper as two silhouettes pass the window in the door.
Her eyes flick toward them, waiting until they’re out of sight before she speaks again.
“She wears it under her shirt. A memor, I think.”
“No.” I shake my head, the prophecy persistently playing inside of me. “It’s more than that.”
“More than a precious stone?” Her eyes narrow to slits, and her tone drips with mockery.
“It’s enough to shatter time…”
Realization slams into me like a pernipe. My breath catches.
Shatter time. Memories. Folk magic. A necklace that looks like a memor, worn by Desdemona, the girl whose prophecy will shatter time.
“It’s the Memorium,” I mutter, my heart slamming against my ribs.
Calista doesn’t agree, not one bit.
Each world has one Soul Stone, and the Memorium is from her world, Folkara. It’s been missing for ages—not public information, but something I’ve learned through Calista’s complaining. It’s said to have powers of glamour, elemental magic, and, more importantly, memories.
It can take, or it can give.
It can shatter time.
And the Royals of Folkara want it back desperately.
“Think about it,” I say quickly, my mind racing. “How long has the Memorium been missing?”
“Centuries.” Her breath trembles, and mine mirrors hers. “Why would Desdemona have it?”
“To fracture time?” I suggest.
Desdemona isn’t just tied to the prophecy.
She could be its catalyst.
Calista huffs, her determination breaking through the fear. “Then we take her necklace,” she decides. “And if it’s the Memorium, I take it home.”
Hastily, I agree.
?
Telling Lucian about the prophecy could help. He’s the closest to Desdemona. He’s publicly shunned her. He must know something more.
But I won’t put Azaire in that kind of trouble—not when the end could be so near.
I won’t undo the reason I stole his emotions.
Going to Folkara is a long shot—but I will go. Because, in a way without words, I promised Azaire I would. I promised to carry his belief when I stole a fraction of it.
But before I go to Folkara, I go to the last place that might still have some answers.
I go home.
This time, when I pass by the meadow where Ma was killed, I don’t feel it. I feel everything else.
I feel Desdemona.