Chapter 8
ROWAN
This place isn’t natural. I knew that the moment I woke up in that room, but it’s still not something I’m used to, and I hope I’m not here long enough to ever do so.
The days have passed both in a blur, yet agonizingly slow.
They stretch and fold in on themselves like the hallways—each one looping back to where it started, no matter how far I walk.
The light inside never changes, either. It’s always that same faint silver glow leaking from the stone walls, bright enough to see by, dim enough to forget whether it’s morning or night.
Cabin fever should have already set in. Maybe it has. Yet, I still keep getting up, for seven days now, and doing exactly what Malrik demands of me.
That has at least gotten easier, and as a result, The Keep has adjusted to my rhythm, and against my better judgment, I’ve learned to work with it.
Mornings—if that’s what they are—begin with training.
Then food appears in my room like clockwork, followed by more lessons, more practice, and more quiet.
Always quiet. The kind of silence that feels alive, but also suffocatingly isolated.
The walls hum faintly when I walk past, and sometimes, if I linger long enough, they shift just enough to let me through a new passage. Like the castle’s testing me, deciding if I’ve earned access to another part of its secrets. Or maybe it’s Malrik testing me. I can’t tell the difference anymore.
Still, I can’t deny what’s changed. I am stronger.
My control comes easier now. When I draw from the energy in the air, I can stop before it becomes hunger.
I can breathe through the intensity instead of drowning.
The first few times I practiced, it left me shaking and sick with guilt. Now I’m left almost…numb.
I don’t know whether that’s progress or proof I’m losing something vital within myself, but I know it’s bringing me another step closer to getting out of this hell.
When I sleep—when I actually sleep—my dreams are clearer than they used to be.
I see flashes of movement through the woods, hear the low growl of a wolf too far away to reach.
Sometimes I wake with Cade’s name on my lips and the taste of ash in my mouth.
I tell myself none of it means anything important, but part of me wonders if it’s something else.
If he’s calling to me, or I’m calling to him.
If our bond is stronger than I’ve yet to understand, or even truly feel.
Either way, the connection’s fractured. And I can’t fix it from here. But I know I want to. Every day away from Cade has made me miss him more. I barely got to know him before I left, but my heart, even without my wolf whispering her encouragement, knows what it wants.
And that’s Cade.
I want to know everything about him. I want to feel his lips against mine again. I want his arms holding me so tightly that I can’t tell where he begins and I end.
I know this with every fiber of my being because those moments are all I can think about when I close my eyes.
They’re what I’m fighting for.
So, I train. I learn. I pretend this is control, not survival. I let Malrik think he’s shaping me into something obedient and useful, because if I don’t, the helplessness will eat me alive.
If I’ve learned anything in this place, it’s that pretending is its own kind of power.
Which is exactly what I remind myself of as I approach the training hall on day eight of being gone and the doors swing open on their own—dramatic, as always. The air inside bites colder than usual, sharp and metallic, tinged with ozone and poor decisions.
Malrik is already there, waiting in the center of the room like a storm in human form—hands clasped behind his back, eyes piercing yet unreadable. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just watches.
“Morning,” I say dryly. “Or is it night? Hard to tell when your murder castle doesn’t believe in windows.”
He doesn’t answer. Of course he doesn’t. The runes beneath his feet flicker once, and before I can roll my eyes, the air ignites.
A surge of an opaque force slams toward me—pure energy, bright as lightning and twice as fast. Instinct takes over. I throw up my arm, half expecting to die, half furious that this is how he chooses to say good morning.
The power hits, searing through my palm, but instead of burning, it bends—curling around me, sinking into my skin. The impact drives me back a step, but I stay standing. Barely. My heart’s pounding like it’s trying to break out of my ribs.
“Really, Malrik?” I snap, breathless but unbroken. “Is this your idea of foreplay, or are you just bad at people skills?”
He lowers his hand, unbothered. “If you were anyone else, you’d already be dead.”
“Wow.” I tilt my head, mockingly impressed. “Compliment of the year. You’re really nailing this whole ‘motivational mentor’ thing.”
My sarcasm has only gotten sharper since I arrived. Since I can’t stab him with something physical, I’ve settled for doing it with words. Keeps me sane. Keeps me from testing how killable he might actually be. For now.
“I call it incentive,” he says coolly, as the air around him steadies, but his gaze doesn’t. “Your reaction was faster this time. Though you didn’t absorb. You redirected. Interesting.”
I flex my fingers, watching the faint shimmer where his magic kissed my skin. “You could’ve just asked me to try. You don’t have to be such a psychotic overachiever about it.”
“You learn best when you’re forced to adapt,” he replies smoothly. “And control isn’t granted. It’s earned.”
I snort. “You know, most people use coffee and encouragement. You used attempted homicide. Very on brand.”
He nods toward the center of the room, where a crystalline sphere flickers to life between us, suspended in the air. “Now again. This time with precision.”
I cross my arms, muttering, “You say that like you didn’t just throw lightning at my face.” But I step forward anyway. Because as much as I hate him, he’s right about one thing—control is earned. And I’m not planning on dying stupid.
The sphere pulses in midair, pale light rippling beneath its surface like liquid moonlight. It hums softly, a low, melodic sound that fills the silence between us.
“Pretty,” I mutter. “What is it? A magic stress ball? Because you’re really starting to give me reasons to need one.”
“Focus,” Malrik says, the word cutting through the room like a command carved from ice. “Draw from it. Then give it back.”
I blink at him. “You say that like I have a manual on how to play supernatural hot potato.”
He doesn’t even look amused. Typical. “You’ve done this before instinctively. Do it again. Only now, with purpose.”
Right. Instinctively. Like the time I killed someone by accident and then he stole the body, throwing me into a panic. Fantastic example.
Still, I take a breath and lift my hand. The air crackles faintly, and the sphere brightens, responding to something inside me. A thread of warmth curls through my chest, snaking down my arm until it reaches my fingertips. I can feel it, like a heartbeat that isn’t mine.
The energy stretches between me and the sphere, a shimmering tether. It’s beautiful and terrifying all at once.
“Good,” Malrik murmurs. “Now, take.”
I don’t want to, but I do. Because that’s what he expects. Because that’s what I am.
The moment I pull, heat rushes through my veins, heady and sharp.
The crystal’s glow dims as mine flares brighter, gold bleeding into my vision.
I feel powerful—an all-consuming sensation.
The pull is intoxicating. Every instinct screams to keep going, to take it all, to feel that unbearable fullness that means I’m alive.
But a whisper of a memory begins to push in. I’m at the creek with Cade, leaning toward the ethereal flower, its energy calling to me like a siren.
It hits me like a strike to the chest. I blink hard, breath stuttering, and I hold onto it—the glimmer of the petals, trembling under the light of the moon. A fragile kind of beauty you protect, not destroy, yet if Cade hadn’t been with me, I’d have been the one who shattered.
That’s who I was. But not who I want to be.
Not becoming the one who does the shattering appeals to me most.
Heal, give, restore.
With a gasp, I push back. The energy surges from my hands, back into the sphere, renewing it with light. The glow steadies, and I don’t collapse this time. My knees shake, sure, but I’m still standing.
When I glance up, Malrik is watching me with a face that gives away nothing, but eyes that say everything.
“Better,” he offers softly, though his tone makes the word sound like a threat. “Control through choice. More progress.”
I wipe the sweat from my brow and shoot him a look as I fall back into the persona of Stubborn Rowan, who couldn’t care less about progress. “Congratulations. You’ve officially turned me into a human nightlight. You must be so proud.”
He tilts his head, lips twitching like he’s fighting a smile. “You mock what you fear. It’s a common defense.”
“I mock you because you make it so easy,” I counter with a wink. “You’re like a motivational poster stapled to a crime scene.”
A soft laugh escapes him—surprisingly genuine—and for a moment, the tension in the room breaks. But only briefly.
“Again,” he says, and just like that, the warmth dies from his expression.
I stare at him, exasperated. “You really need a hobby.”
“I have one,” he replies smoothly. “You.”
My stomach knots at that, though I mask it with a smirk. “Lucky me.”
Yet, even as I raise my hand again, feeling the pulse of the magic beneath my skin, I can’t help but wonder which one of us is actually winning this game—him for pushing me, or me for surviving it.
By the time Malrik dismisses me, my body feels like it’s been wrung out and hung up to dry. The door opens without a word from him, and I take that as my cue to leave before he decides I haven’t suffered enough character development for the day.
The hallway outside buzzes quietly, the faint silver veins along the walls dimmed like The Keep itself is also done with the day.
Every muscle aches as I trudge back toward my room. I half expect the house to offer some cryptic advice, but it’s silent today. No tricks. Just me, my thoughts, and the ghost of my wolf, no longer pacing in the dark corner of my mind.
I reach for her, the way I haven’t been able to stop doing since I got here, but there’s still nothing. No warmth. No whisper. Not even a flicker. Just empty static.
“Still giving me the cold shoulder,” I mutter. “Fine. Be that way. I’m doing great without you.”
Spoiler alert: I am not doing great without her.
The quiet starts pressing down on me, heavier with every step, until I can practically taste the loneliness on my tongue—metallic and bitter. If I didn’t know better, I’d think The Keep feeds on it, and the solemn mood I sensed from the walls was a ploy to push me.
I glare but keep my thoughts to myself about that possibility. No sense in poking the magic. Not after today.
When I round the corner to the library corridor, I freeze. There’s someone there.
A young woman, maybe my age, or she was once. Her skin is pale, her eyes a strange smoky gray, and her hair glows faintly blue under the hall light. She’s sitting on the floor surrounded by books stacked in uneven towers, humming to herself.
This was not here this morning or… I’m being taken a different way back to my room. Maybe this is some sort of gift. Or a trap. Who the hell knows? Either way, I’m not turning back.
She looks up when I approach and smiles like we’re old friends. “You’re the new one.”
My hands clench, but I return her grin. “Depends on who’s asking.”
She tilts her head, unbothered by my suspicion. “I’m Elara. Don’t worry. I’m not on his payroll. Not anymore.”
That doesn’t sound comforting. “Great, because being on Malrik’s payroll seems to come with a high risk of death and questionable moral decisions.”
Her laugh is soft and real. “You’ll fit in nicely.” She gestures to the books. “He makes everyone study something. What’s he got you doing? Fire? Shadow? That awful empathy exercise he loves?”
I blink. “He’s got me doing…a bit of everything.”
Her smile falters for just a second. “Oh. You’re that one.”
I narrow my eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Elara glances toward the ceiling, like The Keep might be listening. “It means you should be careful. This place likes to test limits. So does he.”
I fold my arms. “Yeah, well, me too.”
That earns me another faint smile. “Good. You’ll need that.” She gathers a few books, balancing them in her arms. “Don’t trust the walls. They like him better than the rest of us.”
Before I can ask what the hell that means, she’s moving, slipping down another shadowed hallway, and like she never existed, the rest of her books are also gone when I look forward again.
I stare into the darkness for a long moment, pulse racing. Then I glance at the nearest wall. “You don’t like me better than him, huh? That’s fine. I don’t need you to.”
The silver veins pulse once—slowly, like a heartbeat. Maybe a warning. Maybe approval.
Either way, it lights something inside me. Something small but solid.
Because I might be trapped here, but that doesn’t mean I’m powerless.
Malrik thinks he’s training me, teaching me control, but what he’s really doing is giving me the keys to his own downfall—one lesson at a time.
He wants obedience. I’ll give him patience.
He wants control. I’ll give him illusion.
And when he finally lets his guard down, I’ll show him what real power looks like.
The kind that doesn’t just unmake magic.
One that unravels monsters.