Chapter 30 Blackburnes’ Letters
I was bleeding, but that wasn’t my main concern. My mind buzzed with the possibilities of what I’d just found, and the relief of survival. In my bathroom, I tore off my bloodied blouse and leaned over the sink to clean the wound. I was so focused on my task that I didn’t notice the door opening.
“Dahlia, I heard you running. My Gods, you’re bleeding!” Sequoia exclaimed, rushing to my side. She gently pulled my hair back so I could better wash the injury. I didn’t bother looking at my disheveled reflection, focusing instead on scrubbing the wound as clean as I could.
“How bad does it look?” I asked.
“Uh, it’s hard to say. It’s in the shape of a triangle. Looks like a bird bit you or something. How did this happen?”
“I’d rather not talk about it.”
Sequoia frowned, clearly frustrated by my secrecy, but continued tending to the wound without further questioning. “Hold this on it while I go grab a first aid,” she said, pressing a washcloth to my shoulder.
“I have a medical kit in my room,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”
“Let me help you. That’s going to be tough to patch on your own.” She was right; it would be quicker to let her help, even if it meant facing a barrage of questions, delaying me from retrieving the case in my bag.
“Fine,” I sighed. I needed to get it closed quickly to avoid infection. We made our way to my room. I kept pressure on the wound as the pain in my shoulder grew sharper.
“There.” I nodded toward my dresser where I’d laid out medical supplies and a small bottle of pain suppressant. “The bottle, too, please.”
“At least you’re prepared,” Sequoia noted, gathering the supplies. She sat beside me, and I tried to ignore the memory of the last time we’d shared a bed. I opened the bottle and took a few drops of the tincture.
She worked with a gentle touch, her fingers cool against my inflamed shoulder. “It’s not a clean cut. You might need stitches, or it’ll scar badly.”
“It’ll be fine. Just stop the bleeding, and I’ll live.”
Even without looking, I sensed her pursing her lips. Sequoia wasn’t the type to bear visible scars. Perhaps sensing my distraction, she hesitated, then said, “About the other night . . .”
I met her gaze. “It’s okay, we don’t have to talk about it.”
“I know, I just don’t want you thinking we used any magick on you,” she said quietly. I placed my hand over hers as she finished the bandage, a wave of guilt washing over me. Sequoia was worried I might feel used by them, when in truth, I had been the one using her.
“I don’t think that. What happened was as much my decision as yours.”
Her face softened, and she offered me a small smile. “I’m glad you feel that way.” Her fingers lingered on the bandage, adjusting it with care. “Aspen and I really like you. Even if you have a habit of getting yourself hurt.”
I scoffed, easing back onto the bed with my uninjured shoulder. “I think I need to rest,” I murmured, feeling a genuine wave of exhaustion.
“You’re really not going to tell me what happened?” she pressed, her brow arched, though there was a hint of hurt in her voice.
“A bird attacked me,” I offered. It wasn’t far from the truth. Would she even know of the Grifferact if I had told her? “Isn’t there a saying about that being good luck?”
She laughed softly, though I could tell my answer didn’t satisfy her. Still, if she had her secrets, then I deserved to keep mine.
“Maybe you’ll tell me when you’re feeling better. Rest up. See you at Circle.” She tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear before leaving. It was a simple gesture, but one that held a quiet intimacy I wasn’t ready to acknowledge.
I closed my eyes, fighting off sleep, and waited for the sound of her footsteps to fade from the room.
*
I opened my eyes, still groggy from the medicine, though the pain in my shoulder had dulled to a manageable throb.
I pulled my bag from beneath my pillow, reaching for the case.
Trying to pry it open, I quickly realized it was locked by a mechanism I couldn’t decipher.
Sitting up for a better look, I held it in the dim light of my room, catching my faint reflection on its surface.
It had been a while since I’d really looked at myself, and the person staring back was almost unfamiliar.
Her eyes glinted with a fierce, untamed intensity I barely recognized.
Tracing a finger over the case’s engraved markings, I saw more runes, and a name, faint but discernible. It started with a “B.” I exhaled a warm breath over the metal and polished it with my bedsheet until the letters were clearer.
Blackburne.
It was my name.
I shook, rattled, and even banged the case against my desk in frustration, but it wouldn’t open.
Groaning, I racked my brain for a solution.
Maybe I could hammer it open or apply enough weight.
But then, a more logical thought cut through my frustration.
The doors I’d encountered in the tunnels had reacted to me instinctively, opening at the presence of my blood, as if they were attuned to something unique about me. A biomarker.
Blood magick. The phrase echoed in my mind, and instinctively, I knew what to do.
I reached up to my fresh cut and peeled back the bandages.
I hissed as I pressed my fingers to the opening, coating them in a slick of blood.
I smeared a few drops onto the box, watching as a soft wisp of smoke rose, as if the blood had triggered a reaction within the metal.
With a satisfying click, the case unlocked.
I opened it eagerly, and what I found made my heart lurch.
Inside were three small notebooks, each marked with the missing years I had long searched for, along with multiple pieces of parchment. The handwriting was unmistakably my father’s.
These were his missing journals.
But as I skimmed the entries, I realized they weren’t travel logs as I’d assumed. They weren’t research notes about his time abroad as I had imagined. In the corner of one page, he’d written: Circle, March 10th, 1893.
My pulse quickened as I unfurled the white parchment. But as I read the letter addressed to Julian, I stifled a gasp, pressing my nails to my teeth and biting until I tasted blood.
Julian, my son,
I hope you never have to read this. But if you do, it means I am dead, and I owe you the truth. No flourishes, no excuses, just the facts:
1. I was desperately in love with your mother.
2. I was consumed by blood magick.
3. These two facts are gravely linked.
When I came to Foresyth, I was newly graduated, convinced of my brilliance, eager to uncover the truth of magick—if it was real, and if its power could be harnessed.
I believed myself to be a man bred on facts, not fiction, and that is precisely why the matter fascinated me so.
My obsession led me to The Book of Skorn, a version no one else seemed to possess. I think it was drawn to my blood.
In the Book, Aleric Khorvyn wrote of an emanation called Sophia, of rituals designed to “transcend the material form” and claim her true power. I believed I had discovered something extraordinary.
It was around that time that I was seeing your mother, Hamra.
She was unlike me in every way. She relied on instinct where I relied on theory.
She, unlike me, was bound to no text or teacher, yet wielded knowledge as intrinsic as breathing.
We were rivals first, then collaborators, then something more.
I let her see every part of me, even the parts I should have kept hidden.
We studied the Book together. And that was our undoing.
It started with small sacrifices—rats, lizards, trivial things. But your mother wanted more. I was too enamored—by her, by the Book, by the promise of understanding—to resist. But eventually it was at the cost of my soul.
We chose Elizabeth Svenski.
A girl, terminally ill. A life already slipping away. I told myself it was mercy, but that was a lie. We wanted to prove the Book’s theories, to see if freeing a human soul from its material prison would unlock what Khorvyn had claimed.
It did not.
The girl did not die in a ritualistic transcendence. There was no ascension, no enlightenment. Only a quiet dimming of her light, a candle snuffed. And yet, something stirred in me. I felt it. A hunger not entirely my own started to fester deep within me.
The demiurge. The false God, the prison warden of this material realm, turned against Sophia, and created an unquenchable blood lust within me. It took but never gave, devoured but never satisfied.
The House knew that we had called on the demiurge. It fought back, attempting to right our wrong. Life erupted from underground—roots, vines, and a giant oak tree in the sitting parlor. But it wasn’t enough to stop the death ripening within us. We were too far gone.
Your mother was convinced we had only done the ritual wrong. She believed the five elements had to be offered, not just in presence, but in blood. Five sacrifices. The demiurge would choose one to die and grant the rest power to manipulate the material plane from our sheer will.
And then she told me she was pregnant.
I wanted to protect you. I wanted to end this. I stole the Book and left, believing—foolishly—that if I hid it in the depths of my soul, the cycle would break. I buried myself in work, hunting men guilty of crimes that could never outweigh my own.
And yet, Foresyth continued.
At some point Hamra gave up, burying her research, and our dark history. She quietly raised you in Enderly while she ascended to power as one of the most influential Advisors in history. All the while Foresyth continued to fall apart at the seams.
The deaths stopped for a while. But when Renate was appointed as Meister, he came across Hamra’s work. He was determined to finish what we started, and to restore the House’s magick.
One by one, students began disappearing again. And at the behest of Renate, the Council ensured that no one would discover his sordid methods.