Chapter 7 #2
They come, the whisper murmured again. The daughters. The halves. One light, one dark.
Cush went rigid beside him. “That’s not the Book,” he growled.
“No shit,” Trik growled as the dark magic that he’d once entertained rose up to meet the shadows pouring into the room.
This presence wasn’t bound by pages or ink. The Book was only a mouthpiece, a conduit. Whatever was speaking had been waiting a very long time to be heard.
“They are not offerings,” Trik snarled, leaning into the table as if he could force the words into the stone itself. “One is my Chosen and she carries my child. The other belongs to my warrior. You have no claim over them.” The power in the room spiked.
The door behind them rattled, wood groaning as unseen force slammed against it. Cush turned, striding toward it without hesitation. “We’re leaving,” he said. “Something is seriously wrong, and I need to see Elora with my own eyes. She has to be here.”
Trik felt the desperation that he heard in Cush’s voice. He grabbed the handle and wrenched it down. The latch clicked. The door didn’t move. Cush shoved harder, shoulder slamming into the wood. Nothing. No give. No tremor.
“Trik,” he said slowly, dangerously, “the door’s sealed.”
Trik stepped back from the table, pulse hammering, and reached for the bond again, really reaching this time, shoving past the fog, past the resistance. He hit a wall. Cold. Absolute. But not Cassie’s doing. She would never shut him out so completely, no matter how angry she was at him.
His magic recoiled violently. And the Book seemed to react in kind, more magic leaking from the pages. A shockwave ripped through the study, hurling Cush backward into a shelf. Scrolls and relics crashed to the floor as Cush hit stone hard, the air knocked from his lungs.
Trik barely felt it. The world had narrowed again, this time to a single, terrifying truth.
The Chamber wasn’t blocking them to hide the girls.
It was holding him and Cush. Because it knew exactly what Trik would do if he were free.
His gaze snapped back to the Book, jaw locking as understanding settled in, cold and razor sharp. “You’re afraid,” he said softly.
The whisper coiled tighter, pleased. Balance, blood, completion.
Trik’s hands curled into fists at his sides, magic rolling off him in waves that made the runes in the room flicker.
“I sealed you once,” he said, voice low and lethal. “I can do it again. You don’t get to decide how this ends.”
The Book pulsed—once. Twice. Images burst across its surface. Trees bending, and roots splitting stone. Two figures moving through the forest, drawn forward by an unseen pull. Cassie and
Elora.
Cush dragged himself upright, breath ragged. “It’s going to trap them.”
“Not yet,” Trik said, never looking away as he gripped the book with both hands and pushed his magic into it, seeking the intent behind the Chamber. Why did it want them? The image warped, shadows bleeding into light, the vision stuttering like something was fighting him for control.
“Hold it,” Cush barked.
Trik pressed both palms to the Book. The darkness surged to meet him. For a heartbeat, it welcomed him. Then pain lanced up his arms, shadows clawing higher, hungry and insistent. His teeth clenched as he fought to hold the vision, sweat breaking along his spine.
“Trik!” Cush lunged for him.
He tore his hands away just in time. The Book slammed shut with a thunderous crack. Silence crashed down around them, thick and suffocating.
Cush swallowed hard. “It wants them.”
Trik stared at the Book, chest heaving, Cassie’s presence echoing in his blood like a vow.
“Yes,” he said grimly.
“Why?” Cush asked, his voice laced with anguish. No doubt, the pain of the bond that linked him to Elora being severed in such a violent, absolute way.
Trik felt the fire in his eyes that matched the heat in his veins as he answered. “I don’t know, but it’s going to learn why that’s a mistake.”
* * *
The fire burned low, its flames curling inward as if conserving strength.
Embers popped softly, sending brief sparks into the air before they vanished beneath the canopy.
Moonlight filtered through the branches above them in thin, fractured ribbons, catching on bark and blade and the sharp angles of Oakley’s shoulders as he crouched near the fire.
Syndra watched as he jabbed at the coals with a stick, harder than necessary.
The forest answered with a rustle, not wind, Syndra realized, but something deeper. Leaves brushed together without moving. Branches creaked faintly, stretching like joints that hadn’t been used in a long time. It was well past midnight but the forest was not asleep.
Syndra felt it in the way shadows gathered just beyond the reach of the firelight, pressing close without crossing an invisible boundary. In the way the air seemed thick, heavy with awareness. She didn’t feel fear, but her instincts stirred, ancient and alert.
Oakley scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck, fingers dragging through his hair. “Okay,” he said finally. “So . . . we’re talking about it, right?” His voice echoed too clearly in the clearing.
Syndra stretched her legs toward the fire, boots catching the light as she shifted.
She kept her expression deliberately neutral, even as her gaze flicked toward the tree line.
Tamsin sat beside her, straight-backed and still, his attention fixed outward as though he expected the forest itself to answer.
“Talking about what?” she asked lightly.
Oakley shot her a look. “Seriously?”
A low crack sounded from the woods—wood settling, perhaps. Or something else.
Her brow lifted. “You’ll need to narrow it down. The list of its is long.”
“That guy,” Oakley snapped. The stick stabbed into the coals; sparks leapt, sizzling as they died. “Your weird forest hermit neighbor.”
Syndra blinked once. “Rezer?”
“Yeah,” Oakley muttered. He shifted, sitting back on his heels, restless energy rolling off him. “Him.”
She exchanged a glance with Tamsin. His answering sigh was barely audible, but Syndra felt it all the same. She felt the tension settle deeper into her chest. Discussing Lisa was never simple. Discussing Lisa with her son present was worse.
“Oakley,” Syndra began carefully, “Rezer is—”
“He’s dangerous,” Oakley cut in. The fire popped again, loud in the sudden silence. “He gives off . . . you know.” He waved a hand vaguely, fingers flexing. “Creepy vibes.”
Tamsin’s mouth twitched. “Creepy vibes.”
“I’m serious,” Oakley snapped. “He’s a dark elf. And he’s hanging around my mom.” He paused, jaw tightening. “My mom.”
A breeze whispered through the clearing, stirring loose ash. The fire guttered, then steadied.
Syndra leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “I know you’re worried.”
“I’m not worried,” Oakley said quickly. His voice cracked. “I’m . . . annoyed.”
“You’re worried,” Tamsin said, calm and unyielding as stone.
Oakley scowled. “Well, he’s . . . him. Tall. Smug. Mysterious. Brooding.”
“Sounds right up your mom’s alley,” Syndra said before she could stop herself.
Oakley glared. “Not funny.”
She knew her grin suggested otherwise.
A branch creaked overhead. Syndra felt Tamsin shift beside her, just slightly, like a predator adjusting its stance.
“Oakley,” Tamsin said gently, “your mother is not reckless.”
“I never said she was.” Oakley’s gaze dropped back to the fire. “But she doesn’t see danger in people the way she should. She’s . . . trusting.”
Syndra felt something twist in her chest, warm and sharp all at once. “She also has excellent judgment,” she said quietly. “Better than mine was at her age.”
Oakley snorted. “You’re old as dirt, how can you even remember?”
Tamsin said mildly, “Your mother tamed a dark elf, drawing out the light, though small, in him. She was a catalyst for change because of their relationship.”
Leaves rustled again, closer this time.
Syndra nodded solemnly. “It was impressive.”
Oakley blinked. “Wait—what?”
“She is not weak, and she’s not easily manipulated,” Tamsin finished.
Oakley went quiet.
Syndra watched his shoulders tighten, the way his hands curled into his knees. The firelight flickered across his face, catching the grief he tried, and failed, to hide.
“But Rezer isn’t my father,” Oakley said softly. “Who knows if he has any light, or good, left in him?”
“Triktapic spent centuries as a dark elf assassin,” Syndra replied. “Yet he is the reason light and dark stand together now.”
Oakley opened his mouth. Closed it. Then said, “That’s . . . different.”
“Why?” Tamsin asked. “Because you’re afraid Rezer will hurt her? Or because you’re afraid of her replacing someone she lost?”
The forest seemed to still. Oakley froze. Even the fire quieted, flames shrinking low as if listening.
“I don’t really remember my dad,” Oakley said after a moment. His voice was rough. “Just pieces. But my mom does. And if she lets herself fall for someone again, and it goes wrong . . .” He swallowed. “I don’t want her to break.”
Syndra moved before thought could stop her, crossing the small distance and bumping her shoulder gently into his. He startled, then sagged just a fraction.
“You’re allowed to want her safe,” she said softly. “You’re just not allowed to decide who she’s allowed to be brave with.”
Oakley groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I hate when you make sense.”
She smirked. “Age and grace.”
Tamsin snorted.
Oakley glanced at him. “Why is it grace when she does it, but when you do it—”
“Wisdom,” Tamsin supplied.
“Bossiness,” Syndra corrected.
Oakley laughed. The sound faded too quickly. The fire crackled sharply, embers shifting without wind. Syndra felt it then, the pressure. The forest leaning closer, intent sharpening like a held breath.
Oakley shivered. “Do you guys feel that?”