Chapter 26 Estella
Rain and cold iron cling to the stone, filling the air with a sharp, grounding scent. Below, the city stretches out in muted gold—copper roofs, tramlines jagged as broken teeth, and a river catching the last stubborn shards of evening light.
From up here, the castle sits like a weathered tooth set against the sky: squat towers, battered statues, a ring of crenellations that have watched empires march and crumble like storms. The wind steals at the torches’ flames, scattering them into splinters of trembling light.
I turn, electric anticipation coiling inside me, nearly delirious with a need to crash, to burn, to tear apart. My gaze settles on the target below, walking the parade ground in a heavy coat, each step measured, ceremonial, deliberate.
An art smuggler who hides relics behind the piety of churches.
Dante cradles the crossbow in his hands, the stock pressed tight to his shoulder, his eyes narrowed as he calculates.
Behind the target, a line of officers marches in precision, muskets glinting like jagged teeth.
They adhere to the courtyard’s geometry—a procession arranged not just to move but to declare power, to remind anyone watching who holds it.
The courtyard itself is a study in deliberate beauty. Cobblestones slick with rain form a broad square, framed by arched walkways that echo faintly with distant footsteps.
The castle rises above it all, a slab of authority carved from dark stone, each block saturated with centuries of damp, whispers, and human ambition. The walls are broad, capable of bearing mounted patrols along their tops without fear of a fall.
Gargoyles jut from the stone like frozen predators, their mouths twisted into silent warnings that have survived centuries. The towers rise squat and heavy, built from an age when architecture meant endurance, when beauty was measured by weight and the promise of defense.
I pause, letting the gothic grandeur wash over me. This place feels almost sacred in its brutality. It feels even better to realize that it already holds a few of the dead guards we and Dante left behind.
And soon, right in the middle of this perfect courtyard, blood will be pooling—a human stain on ancient stone.
Goosebumps bloom along my arms as I step closer to the edge of the castle wall, looking down at the people milling about. They move like ants emerging from their burrow, chasing something fleeting before scurrying back into the dark they came from.
My attention shifts, drawn inevitably to Dante. He stands a few paces away, shoulders steady, preparing to send a bolt straight into the man’s heart. I bite down gently on my lower lip, the thrill inside me flaring, hot and insistent.
He has grown so confident, and I swear on everything I have—it’s one of the sexiest things I’ve ever witnessed.
Everything about this moment feels like foreplay: the way his hands curve around the weapon, the poise in his stance, the concentration darkening his eyes as he studies the target.
He scans the courtyard with the precision of a predator.
The sensation returns to me as I watch him—the one that always sneaks up on me.
It starts with a single heartbeat, then grows heavier, sinking into my stomach, sliding deeper until it settles low in my core.
I never quite know what to do with it at first. It unnerves me, simply because I’ve never felt anything like this before, and the unfamiliarity shivers its way up my spine.
But the discomfort dissolves the moment he glances at me, and I see myself reflected in his gaze.
Nothing compares to that feeling. The recognition. The undeniable connection. Two people who were lost in this world for so long, finally finding each other—finally finding perfect solace in the arms of someone just as ruined, just as hungry.
And I want to keep him. I want him with me, around me, inside me, above me. It’s an obsession that came out of nowhere, but now it clings to me with claws, refusing to loosen its grip.
Happiness has always been fleeting for me, a trick of light.
But Dante manages to hold it in place, keep the vapor from dissolving.
Especially with the flowers he keeps bringing me.
Even here, far from home, I woke this morning to a bouquet of spider lilies in a vase beside my bed at the hotel—blood-red petals curled like secrets waiting to be spoken.
Before I do anything stupid—like hurl myself onto him right here—I force my gaze to the world around us.
Light from the city below bleeds upward in molten copper, pooling along the undersides of the archways and tracing the edges of iron-grated windows.
Soldiers march across the courtyard in precise, ceremonial paths, their movements sharp and mechanical, like pieces sliding across a chessboard.
“Ready?” Dante’s voice cuts through the hum of the night, snapping me out of my spiraling thoughts.
We’ve memorized this building like a multiplication table.
Every corridor, every stair, every hatch has been studied, mapped, and stored in our heads.
The plan is simple: the bolt hits the heart, and then we vanish back into the building, down the spiral ladder, and through the now-unlocked hatch below.
I step closer to the edge, another brisk brush of wind slicing across my face. The target below rambles on, oblivious, while I crack the muscles in my neck, preparing to sprint.
“Ready,” I answer, the word steady.
I focus on the crossbow in Dante’s hands—a compact, lethal thing. His finger hovers above the trigger, the quiet tension almost palpable.
Then, he releases it. The bolt flies with a whisper, slicing through the night. Dante immediately lowers his stance, and I mirror him, eyes locked on the target. The man freezes mid-step, his smile sliding off his face like oil spilling over stone.
For a heartbeat, the bolt seems suspended, hovering between stone and sky, as if time itself has caught its breath. There is a dull, terrible sound when it strikes, the muted impact of cloth and bone swallowed by distance and wool.
The target shifts his weight, the bolt buried deep in his chest, his lips quivering, eyes flicking to the frozen audience around him. For that instant, it feels as if the entire world holds its breath, suspended in the electric silence that follows.
My eyes glisten as I watch the body collapse to the cobblestones. Red blooms from the wound, a slow, liquid spread that stains the ground. Then, as if a switch has been flipped, a scream pierces the night.
One scream follows another, like a chain of dominoes toppling in rapid succession.
In seconds, the crowd erupts into chaos: wide eyes, gaping mouths, terror spilling from every corner of the courtyard.
Guards rush toward the fallen man, their movements clumsy, jerky, confusion written across their faces as they try to locate the shooter.
A sharp tug on my arm pulls me out of the scene. “We need to go. Guards will be all over this place any second.”
We need to move, I know that. But a dark thrill curls inside me, a sick pleasure at watching him execute perfection under my eyes. My gaze lingers on the body even as he drags me away.
Dante swings the castle door open, and a rush of cold, stale air strikes me like a slap. The wind pushes me fully into motion, an invisible hand urging me forward. I step inside, the darkness and draft immediately wrapping around me.
I don’t believe in ghosts, but I’d be lying if I said this place didn’t crawl under my skin. It feels haunted.
The uppermost chamber looms above like the castle’s forgotten skull—an attic devoid of warmth, where air goes to die. The ceiling slopes steeply under the roof’s pitch, thick beams crossing like the ribs of some ancient beast.
The wood groans under every shift of weight, as if resenting the intrusion. Cobwebs stretch like silver threads between beams and trunks, catching the faintest glimmer of light.
Dante’s hand finds mine as we descend a narrow ladder into the castle’s throat. At the bottom, the hatch rim bears scuffed marks—boot prints worn deep into the wood, a silent testament to someone who passed this way long ago.
Outside, footsteps echo, blending with the weak screams and chaotic murmur of the crowd above. Dante grips the hatch handle carefully and lifts it, sending a puff of dust into the air. I wave my hand, shielding my nose from the grit as we peer down.
A metallic ladder snakes along cement walls, sturdy but untouched for decades. Below, only catacombs stretch into shadow, according to the map—a labyrinth of history and silence, waiting for us to descend.
“I’m going first,” I say, pressing my gloved palms against the dusty floor. Slowly, I place my foot on the metal ladder, testing it, leaning my weight cautiously.
Dante’s hand brushes against my arm, steadying me. “Slow and steady, baby.”
I move, each rung rattling beneath me, a metallic tremor that pulses straight into my bones.
Cold moisture coats the ladder, seeping into my gloves and leaving my hands slick.
The attic above recedes into a shrinking square of pale light, fading fast until it’s nothing more than a thin suggestion of gray.
I jump off, letting a rush of relief roll through me when my feet touch solid ground. The ladder hums under Dante’s weight as he climbs down right after me. He pulls the hatch closed behind him, sealing us from the world above. Darkness presses in, and for a heartbeat, I forget to breathe.
I pull out the flashlight, flipping it on. Its beam pierces the gloom, illuminating dust motes suspended in the stale air. A few spiders scuttle in frantic arcs, their tiny legs scratching against stone. I wrinkle my nose and step back.