Chapter 30 #2
I slam the book closed, shoving it under my arm. “We’ll put tails on them in the morning. I’ll have Folke stick so close to Artain he’ll wonder if his shadow has come to life.”
Rian paces, rubbing the back of his neck, looking like he’s working through about a hundred possible lies in his mind.
“Rian, go,” I bark.
He stops. His hand falls away, and for once, he obeys.
The castle is eerily quiet. Many of the residents are still out enjoying the festivities, which will stretch until dawn.
Even now, I can hear music playing as far off as the border to the Silent Ward.
But there are guards at the entrance to Raven Hall, and kitchen servants preparing for tomorrow’s full day of banquets.
Their movements clatter against my ears—even their breathing deafens me now.
I climb the narrow stairs to the second floor, where a tiny contemplation room, a place for prayer and meditation, is set unobtrusively at the hallway’s end.
I close the door behind me.
My heart thrums as I drop to the kneeling bench—worn smooth from centuries of use—and set the book on the low prayer altar. A shelf built into the wall holds a single candle and a box of matches beside it.
It’s pitch-black in here. Normally, that wouldn’t matter—my night vision’s good enough. But that’s what tricked me last time when it came to this specific illustration.
I brace one hand on the edge of the altar, the other fumbling for the matchbox. My fingers shake as I strike a match, the flame flaring to life.
Warm light spills across the parchment.
Blood-red ink gleams in its glow—the color my night vision can’t pick up on.
Slowly, I flip through the book. As I suspected, it’s the same series of illustrations that I stumbled across on the lowest level of Drahallen Hall: The ten fae seated around a stone table. Meric with his maze. Alyssantha in the throes of passion with two maids.
I flip through the pages slowly, dread pooling in my gut with every turn. These illustrations are vibrant, nearly untouched by time—more vivid and detailed than the faded murals buried in Drahallen’s crumbling plaster.
I stop on the image of Immortal Solene standing before the ancient, smoke-filled city of Calisyrune. She practically pulses on the page—her hair writhing like it might slither off the parchment.
I close my eyes for a breath, swallowing down the bitter taste rising in my throat, then force myself to turn the page.
As expected, it’s the matching image, the same one I saw in Drahallen Hall’s basement: Solene unleashing brimfire, the city swallowed in ruin as trees bloom and the raging Ramvik River runs clean.
Nature triumphant.
This was the image that first seeded a fear I couldn’t shake—that Sabine, deep down, might do the same. That she might choose nature over humanity, the way Solene did.
But everything’s changed now. I trust her, body and soul. Not that she wouldn’t consider righting the balance between nature and civilization—but that she wouldn’t decide alone.
She’d tell me.
We’d face it together.
Together, always.
I take a deep breath before I flip the next page.
The next illustration is the one I glimpsed when Suri handed me the book. It was that moment when it all clicked like a fucking lock.
I flip to the next page and stagger back like I’ve seen a ghost, elbow knocking something over behind me.
No. No fucking way. It can’t be.
“That backstabbing motherfucker,” I growl, hands tightening on the edges of the altar until the wood nearly splinters. I stagger back, slamming my fist into the stone wall. “Fuck!”
My lungs feel too small, too empty. I pace, rubbing my sternum, trying to fight for air. My mind can’t snag on a single thought.
Finally, I get my shit together.
I lean over the altar, hands still clenched like I’m trying to bend the wood in two, and force myself to keep flipping through the pages.
At first, I thought these illustrations were just records. Like the pictograms in Drahallen Hall. Thought they were showing me what already happened.
But no.
These aren’t history.
They’re a blueprint for the future.
A gods-damned prophecy laid out in ink and blood—how the fae intend to dominate the world, piece by piece, until there's nothing left to worship but them.
“Sabine,” I whisper, and slam the book shut.
I sprint up the stairs to the royal bedroom in a daze, shoving past soldiers, nearly careening into the wall. I must look drunk—hell, I feel it—my head spinning so hard I can barely see straight.
I shove the door open hard enough to rattle it in its hinges—
—to find Sabine is already on her feet.
Her human glamour’s half-fallen, silver light flaring at her palms like a weapon. Her eyes are wide, wild, searching the room until they land on me.
She exhales, hard. “Basten.”
I’m breathless. “You’re awake?”
“I had a dream,” she says quickly, stepping toward me, voice tight with urgency. “No—not a dream. A memory, like before. I was coming to find you.”
Our eyes meet, both of us shaken.
And I realize how in sync we really are now.
I drop the book at the foot of the bed beside her, where it falls like a brick.
There’s a beat where she only stares at it, as if she knows what this means.
“The Last Return of the Fae?” she finally states, her voice distant.
“Suri found it.” My voice is hoarse, choked.
Sabine’s fingers hover over it, as if she’s afraid it will bite if she touches it.
My ribs feel too damn tight as I pace, needing to move, my hand flexing in and out of a fist. “The copy Woudix gave you was a fake. He set you up, Sabine. Poured promises of peace in your ear and gave you a book filled with puzzles to distract you. Tonight? That fucked-up puppet show? Vale knew it was going to happen. Rian clocked it immediately—said Vale’s anger was just an act.
Sabine, this entire thing is an act. The Fae Games.
It’s all a trick. It was a means for Vale to take Old Coros by force, easy entry to the city. And I can prove it.”
I expect her to deny it. To defend her father once more. Or maybe not—maybe just to show shock at his betrayal.
The last thing I expect is for her calm, still silence.
I flip open the book to the page where the murals in Drahallen Hall’s basement left off, and jab my finger on it.
“This is their plan. That bastard Woudix was behind it all along. And the puppet show today was part of the plan. To shock the public once with the resurrected dead, so that when it happens again, panic won’t immediately set in.
They’ll think it’s just Artain’s buffoonery again.
And when they realize it’s an attack, it will be too late. ”
I flip through the illustrations:
A life-sized puppet show with human prisoners.
Dead bodies, brought back to their feet, terrorizing a city.
The fae court seated on thrones forged out of the rubble and violence.
She barely glances at the illustrations—the blueprint that lays it all bare, that shows us exactly what’s coming.
“I…” She swallows, voice catching in her throat. Then, more firmly, “I already know, Basten.”
A muscle twitches beneath my eye. I breathe deep, try to keep my voice level. “What do you mean, you know?”
She hesitates, then grabs my hand and pulls me toward the window.
“That’s what I wanted to tell you. I had another dream.
Only—like before—it wasn’t a dream. It was a memory.
A recovered one from a Return long ago. I heard them speak about this plan.
When I woke, I looked outside… That light? That’s fey. It’s a portal. Look.”
A cold dread coils up my spine as I follow her gaze to the dark city skyline. Sabine points toward Valor Circle, where the Valor Bell tower rises over the rooftops. Where a flicker—bright and wrong—shimmers at its peak.
Fey light.
A portal.
Open.
And then I hear it.
The scrape of desiccated flesh and bone against stone. I know that sound because, unfortunately, I’ve heard it before.
It’s the dry rasp of the walking dead.