20. Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty
Evandra
“The Rift does not invent. It remembers. It reflects desire, fear, and buried truth, stripped of shame or disguise. Those who enter its gaze must be prepared to see not who they pretend to be—but who they already are becoming.”
— The Magic of Edralis, Vol. IV
The chamber was circular, domed like a shallow bowl, the walls faceted crystal. At first glance, it looked empty. But the air shimmered faintly, like heat rising off pavement. Something in the Rift hummed here—alive and watching.
Julian hovered outside the threshold, his expression tight. “This is a truthroom,” he said. “The walls react to Rift. Thought, memory, desire. The more volatile the emotion, the stronger the projection. It’s useful for training to help prepare for emotional warfare as much as possible.”
“Oh, great,” I muttered. “So magical therapy. Just what I needed.”
Julian didn’t smile. “You’ll be in there alone.”
Before I could answer, Drake stepped forward. “No she won’t be.”
Julian frowned. “That’s not?—”
“She’s our Seer ,” Drake said, voice flat. “Untrained. If she loses control in there, she could tear the room apart and crumble with it. We also can’t afford for her to be terrified for weeks on end.”
Julian exhaled. “Fine. But you don’t engage with the projections. You don’t react.”
The Rift was already humming before we stepped inside.
The room was quiet—no wind, no heat, just the low pulse of magic moving like a slow heartbeat beneath the crystal walls. The ceiling arched overhead in mirrored plates, reflecting nothing but soft shimmer.
I felt exposed the moment the door sealed behind us.
Drake was silent. His arms were crossed. His jaw was tight. He hadn’t looked at me since we entered.
Then the walls lit up. Not with one image—but dozens. Layered. Chaotic. Memory bleeding into fantasy, into fear, into something else entirely.
The first was harmless: me, walking alone through Winshire’s market. I almost smiled. Then it changed.
Drake. Watching me. Always watching. From shadows, from doorways, from behind half-closed eyes. Silent, intense, like I was something dangerous—or sacred.
I stiffened. The next vision snapped into place like a blow.
The bathhouse. Not how it had happened—but how it could’ve. My mouth on his throat. His hands gripping my thighs. His head thrown back in something that looked too much like worship.
Then: gone.
The image blinked out, replaced by something worse.
My father’s death. The ash on his skin. My mother’s silence. A girl in the mirror with hollow eyes. Me.
I turned away, but the room didn’t stop.
Now it was Drake again—bloodied, kneeling. Holding something in his arms. Me. Dead . I gasped. The scene shifted.
Him, alone, sobbing into his hands, repeating my name over and over until it didn’t sound like a word.
I turned to him. “Drake?—?”
He didn’t answer. His gaze was locked on the crystal wall. His shoulders were taut, his breathing shallow. A storm beneath the surface. And I realized with a jolt—he wasn’t looking at me.
He was looking at the vision.
A child. Red-haired. Scaled. Gold-eyed. Laughing. Running through a sunlit field.
My breath hitched.
“No,” I whispered. “That’s not—I never thought—” The child turned to look at us.
Everything shattered. The walls went dark. The air thinned. The Rift surged through me like a wave, too deep to breathe through, too fast to brace for. My knees buckled.
Drake caught me before I fell—but only for a heartbeat. His touch steadied. Then vanished. He stepped back like I burned him. His expression was unreadable. Masked. But the rawness in his eyes gave him away. He looked… wrecked . Not from what he’d seen—but from what he couldn’t face.
“Drake—” I whispered.
He turned without a word. And walked out. The door sealed behind him with a soft hiss.
I stood alone in the crystal silence, chest heaving, hands shaking, every nerve exposed. I hadn’t touched him. I hadn’t said a word. But something had cracked wide open between us. And he’d left me standing in the middle of it.