Chapter 7 #2
The carnival tonight is a fucking fever dream.
As always. It’s a sprawling, gothic wasteland of striped tents that look like they’re bleeding into the dark sky.
The lights are all deep purples, sickly greens, and blood-reds, casting long, distorted shadows that dance across the cobblestones.
A thick, clinging mist rolls over the ground, swirling around my ankles like ghostly fingers trying to pull me down.
The smell of fried dough and caramelized sugar mixes with the scent of old incense and ozone.
People are everywhere—masked freaks, decadent nobles, and lost souls—all drifting through the haze.
I hear the clown talking to another performer. "The Ringmaster won't like this."
Another replies, "Then don't let the Ringmaster find out."
I pause.
Ringmaster?
Could be an attraction I haven't seen yet.
I walk through the crowd, a ghost among ghosts. I don't say a word to anyone; I don't even look them in the eye. I just keep moving, driven by a restless energy that feels like electricity humming under my skin.
I wander further than I’ve ever gone, pushing past the familiar sights until I hit a part of the grounds that feels... different. Heavier. That's when I see it: a massive, looming tower that pierces the sky like a jagged obsidian needle. The Chapel Bell Tower.
It looks empty, desolate, and utterly imposing.
As I approach, I spot a security guard standing by the entrance.
My heart gives a little thud—I expect him to bark at me, to tell me to fuck off or escort me back to the castle.
But as I get closer, he doesn't move to stop me.
He doesn't even speak. He simply steps aside, his eyes vacant, granting me passage as if I belong here.
I don't question it. I just go.
The climb is grueling. The stairs are a tight, winding spiral of cold stone that seems to go on forever.
The air gets thinner, colder, and the only sound is the rhythmic click-clack of my shoes echoing up the shaft.
Every few flights, there are narrow slits in the walls that let in slivers of moonlight, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.
It feels like I'm ascending into another realm, leaving the noise of the carnival behind for something silent and sacred.
Finally, I reach the top.
I step out onto the open platform, and for a moment, the world just... stops.
I’m hundreds of meters in the air. Below me, the carnival looks like a miniature toy set, a cluster of glowing neon dots and swirling mist. Beyond that, the entire city stretches out, a glittering carpet of lights that fade into the horizon.
The wind howls up here, whipping my hair across my face, pulling at my clothes.
My heart is hammering against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage.
My body feels light, almost weightless, as if I could just step off the edge and dissolve into the night.
There's a terrifying beauty to it—the sheer scale of the drop makes me feel insignificant, a tiny speck of dust in a vast, uncaring universe.
My mind is racing, a cocktail of adrenaline and a strange, hollow longing.
Then, without warning, the sky breaks.
Rain begins to fall, starting as a light drizzle before turning into a sudden, violent downpour. The temperature plummets. Fuck, I think, shivering as the cold water soaks through my clothes. I need to get back to the chambers. Now.
I turn to leave, but as I take a step, I freeze.
My legs won't move.
I stare down at my feet, blinking in confusion.
I try to force my right foot forward, but it's like my muscles have turned to lead. I'm paralyzed. A wave of raw, primal fear crashes over me, hitting me so hard it knocks the breath from my lungs. It’s not just a panic attack; it’s a total system failure.
My body has simply decided that it cannot move.
I am trapped on this fucking ledge in the middle of a storm.
I look around, panic rising in my throat.
I'm completely alone. I reach for my pocket, but I have no phone.
Oh, right. I never have a phone. There is no one to call, no one to scream for.
Below, I can see the people in the carnival scattering, running for shelter or huddling under tents to escape the rain.
The rain gets heavier, turning into a blinding sheet of grey. It’s autumn, so I shouldn't be surprised, but the timing is a cruel joke. I’m freezing, drenched, and I can't move a single inch.
Rhys.
The thought of him is the only thing keeping me from spiraling into a full-blown meltdown. He doesn't know I'm here. He thinks I'm safe in the chambers. He isn't following me, and I'm stuck in this godforsaken tower.
Then, I remember. The black halo.
My hands are shaking violently as I reach up to my head. I grasp the cold metal of the halo, pulling it down and clutching it tightly in my palms. I remember Rhys’ instructions about it. Is this even going to work? Am I just clutching a piece of jewelry while I freeze to death?
I don't have a choice. I have to try.
I squeeze the halo so hard the edges dig into my skin. I shut my eyes tight, blocking out the rain and the terrifying height, and I pour every ounce of my will, my fear, and my desperate need into a single image.
Rhys.
I think of his scent, the weight of his possessive grip, the dark, psychotic glint in his eyes. I scream his name in my mind, begging him to find me, to save me, to fucking get me out of here.
I keep gripping the halo like it's the only solid thing left in this fucking world.
My fingers are numb from the cold and the rain, but I don't let go.
I just hold it tight, close my eyes harder, and pour every desperate thought into it.
Rhys. Rhys. Please. Find me. I don't know how long I stand there like that, shaking, soaked through, whispering his name in my head like a prayer I don't even believe in.
The rain hammers down, drowning out everything else, and the wind howls through the gaps in the stone like it's laughing at me.
My legs still won't move. My body's locked in this stupid, useless panic, and all I can do is hold that cold metal and hope whatever dark magic he put in it actually works.
I keep calling for him. I follow his instructions exactly—hold it, think of him, focus on nothing else.
My mind's a mess of fear and rain and the dizzying drop below, but I cling to the image of his face, his voice, the way he looks at me like I'm the only thing that matters in this fucked-up world.
I almost laugh at how ridiculous it is. A fucking halo.
Like that's going to summon him from wherever he's dealing with The Midnight Menagerie shit.
But I've got nothing else. No phone. No way down.
Just this cold metal circle and the storm swallowing me whole.
Then it happens.
Hands. Strong, warm hands sliding around my waist from behind, pulling me back against a solid chest that feels like safety and danger all at once.
I don't open my eyes. I don't need to. I know it's him.
The scent of him cuts through the rain—expensive cologne mixed with that sharp, metallic edge that always clings to him.
His breath is hot against my ear, and his voice comes low, rough, exactly like I remember.
"I told you I'd find you, little doll."
The words hit me like a lifeline. My knees buckle, but he catches me, holding me tighter against him.
The panic doesn't vanish, but it shifts, transforms into something else—relief so sharp it hurts.
I feel his lips brush my wet hair, his arms wrapping around me like he's afraid the wind might steal me away.
One hand moves up to cradle the back of my head, fingers threading through my soaked strands, while the other stays firm around my waist, anchoring me to him.
"Rhys," I whisper, my voice cracking. I still can't move my legs, but now it's because I'm melting into him, letting his heat chase away the cold that's seeped into my bones.
He turns me slowly, gently, until I'm facing him, and I finally open my eyes.
He's soaked too, rain dripping from his dark hair, running down the sharp lines of his face.
His eyes are wild, intense, scanning me like he's checking for injuries, for any sign that something's broken me beyond repair.
"You fucking scared me," he mutters, but there's no anger in it—just that possessive edge that makes my chest tighten. His thumb traces my cheek, wiping away rain or tears, I can't tell which. "I felt it. The second you called. Like a hook in my chest yanking me here."
I lean into his touch, my hands still clutching the halo between us.
He glances down at it, then back at me, a small, dark smile tugging at his lips.
"Good girl. You did exactly what I told you.
" His voice drops lower, almost a growl.
"Now let's get you out of this fucking rain before you catch your death up here. "
He doesn't wait for me to answer. He just scoops me up, one arm under my knees, the other around my back, lifting me like I weigh nothing.
My head rests against his shoulder, and for the first time since the paralysis hit, my body starts to relax.
The fear ebbs, replaced by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my ear.
As he carries me down the spiral stairs, the rain still pounding outside, I feel the halo warm slightly in my hands, like it's satisfied its job is done.
Rhys's grip never loosens, and I know—deep in my bones—that wherever he takes me next, I'm safe. For now.