Chapter Nineteen – Jessa
Chapter Nineteen
Jessa
The quill floats in the air, dips into the ink pot, then presses its tip to the parchment.
My eyes widen as it starts writing on its own.
At this point, magic shouldn’t surprise me anymore.
I just slept in a perfectly preserved medieval bedroom and ate food that was centuries old.
Honestly, I can’t wait to be done with all of this and go back to the real world.
The quill finishes writing and drops next to the parchment. I lean forward and read the words aloud.
Why do you seek the fortune?
I look up at Castien and see that he’s fully focused on me, ready to intervene if needed.
“Well, this is an easy question,” I say.
“Don’t treat it lightly,” he says. “When I confess, the program that runs makes me dig deep. It doesn’t allow me to lie, not even to myself.”
“Of course. It sounds simple, but maybe it isn’t. Let me think.”
I turn back to the altar and stare at the question.
Why do I seek the fortune? The obvious answers line up in my mind like a neat little list. I seek it so my mother and I won’t be poor anymore.
So I can pay off the college debt that’s been strangling me, pay off the loan I took out to hire the MSA, so I can open the practice I’ve dreamed about.
I could answer with any of these reasons, and it would be true.
But it wouldn’t be the truth.
I shift on the kneeling platform, adjusting my weight. My knees already hurt. I need to think harder than this. The magic in this place isn’t going to accept surface-level bullshit. If Castien’s confession protocol forces him to dig deep, then this will force me to do the same.
Why do I really seek the fortune? So I could be rich and stop worrying about money forever.
I could buy a house, maybe two. One for me and one for my mother, so she doesn’t have to live in that cramped apartment anymore.
I could use the Holloway fortune to rebuild the generational wealth my ancestors squandered through centuries of stupidity and corruption.
These are all true. Every single one of these things is something I want.
But wanting things isn’t the same as seeking them.
When you seek something this hard, when you risk your life for it, there’s always something deeper.
I know this from my training. I’ve studied human motivation for years.
When someone does something truly difficult, something that could kill them, it’s because they want to prove something.
Either to someone else or to themselves.
I dig my fingernails into my thighs, grounding myself in the physical sensation. I need to apply my own techniques to myself, strip away the layers, and get to the core motivation underneath all the practical reasons.
What do I have to prove? And to whom?
The answers start coming, and they’re not comfortable.
I think about all the people in my life who told me to give up.
My college advisor, who said psychology was a noble field, but I should consider something more lucrative.
My ex-boyfriend, who said I was wasting my time trying to help people who didn’t want to be helped.
Our already rocky relationship didn’t last long after that.
Family members, who whispered that I should let the vault go, that I’d die or get maimed just like all the others before me.
And my mother herself, who begged me to give up so many times that I’ve lost count.
People who cared about me. People who wanted me to be safe and smart, to lower my expectations and accept an average life.
I hated who I was around them. I hated the person they wanted me to become.
Someone smaller, who accepted limitations and stayed in her lane.
Someone who played it safe and never reached for anything extraordinary.
I lost friends over this. Real friends and people I genuinely liked.
But I couldn’t stay in their orbit, because being around them meant shrinking myself down to fit their vision of what was possible.
They wanted me to be realistic, to stop talking about opening my own practice, and stop obsessing over the family vault that had killed better people than me.
They wanted me to give up.
And I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.
That’s what this is really about. It’s not about the money, even though the money will change everything. It’s not about the house, or the practice, or paying off debt. These are just byproducts.
It’s about proving that I was right to refuse to shrink. Right to keep reaching, to believe I could do something that everyone else said was impossible.
I look up at Castien again and bite my lip.
“I think I know what the answer is. But just in case, be ready to catch me.”
He nods.
I turn back to the altar. My fingers dig into the material of my pants as I stare at the flickering candles.
“I seek the fortune so I can prove to myself and to those who have doubted me that I am worth something.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for the floor to drop out from under me.
Nothing happens.
I exhale harshly, and my whole body starts shaking. I really thought I’d gotten it wrong.
Castien’s hand settles on my shoulder. He squeezes gently.
“You did good.”
He’s trying to soothe me, and it works. The trembling subsides a little.
“Yes, you’re right. Okay. I can do this.”
I take a breath and force my shoulders to relax.
The quill lifts into the air again. It dips into the ink pot and starts writing the second question, and I watch the words appear on the parchment.
What do you fear about yourself?
“Oh, come on,” I groan.
This one is way harder than the first. It cuts straight to the bone.
Castien removes his hand from my shoulder, and I immediately miss the contact. I look up at him, but of course he’s unreadable.
“To answer a question like this, it takes years of therapy,” I say. “And not even then...” I rub my face with both hands. “Fuck. Castien, I think this is it.”
“I believe in you,” he says. “Take your time.”
I thread my fingers through my hair and pull slightly, using the pain to focus.
“What do I fear about myself?”
I adjust my position again. My back is starting to ache, but I can do this. I haven’t studied psychology for nothing. I know how to dig into the human psyche and find the shadows hiding there.
Except therapists are shit at applying what they know to themselves. That’s why we have our own therapists. We can see everyone else’s problems, but when it comes to our own fears and weaknesses, we’re just as blind as anyone else.
Still, I have to try.
I start with the basics. What do I fear about myself? I need to work from external fears inward. That’s the methodology. Start with the surface and work down to the core.
Fear of abandonment. Everyone has this one, it’s universal.
Children develop it early, when they’re still babies.
Every time a parent leaves them with someone else, their nervous system interprets it as abandonment.
The greatest abandonment – assuming the child’s family is tight and they have both parents – is when they’re first taken to daycare.
That moment when the parent walks away and the little one is left with strangers, the nervous system screams that this is the end, the parent is gone forever, and survival is threatened.
Fear of abandonment can’t be avoided; it’s hardwired into us.
Learning to deal with it and trust that the parent will come back is what makes us grow into strong people.
But the fear never completely goes away, it gets buried under layers of rationalization and coping mechanisms. And fear of abandonment goes hand in hand with another one: the belief that there’s something fundamentally wrong with you.
That you’re not worthy of love or care, and you were abandoned because you deserved it.
However, I already addressed worth in the first question. It worked, which means this question needs a different answer.
“What do I fear about myself?” I mutter.
It must be something bad, related to a weakness I don’t want to acknowledge. Or maybe a wickedness inside me that I pretend isn’t there.
Am I a wicked person? Am I selfish?
Everyone is selfish to some degree. That’s not wickedness, it’s survival. Humans are wired to prioritize their own needs. The question is whether your selfishness crosses the line into causing harm.
Have I done bad things? Have I hurt anyone?
I run through my history, examining my actions with the detachment I’d use on a patient.
I’ve made mistakes, sure, I’ve been thoughtless sometimes.
I’ve said things I regret, but I’m not more selfish or wicked than the general population.
I’m a decent person. I try to help people, and I chose a career dedicated to understanding and treating the most difficult patients in the world.
Have I broken anyone’s heart?
I think about my ex-boyfriends. There weren’t many, and none of the relationships were that serious. Mostly, they were the ones who left me, not the other way around. I never got deep enough with anyone to cause real damage.
So, what is it? What do I fear about myself that I can’t see?
I look up at Castien and shake my head.
“I have nothing. I don’t know what I fear about myself.”
He doesn’t say anything, just nods. But I notice his wings tremble, an involuntary reaction that signals distress. I look at him more closely. His posture is rigid, and his eyes are fixed on me with an intensity that makes my stomach clench.
Have I hurt him in any way?
We argued about religion. I tried to make him see that his commandments are outdated, and the Church weaponizes shame to control people.
That his guilt over desire is manufactured by an institution that thrives on making people feel broken.
I challenged everything he believes about himself.
I made him question his core programming and doubt the very foundations of his existence.
And when he kept telling me that wanting me physically was forbidden, that it was a sin, I pushed him.
I insisted. I offered myself to him, told him his beliefs were wrong, and that he should ignore the values he was taught to abide by for me.
He called me Jezebel. The one who corrupts.
Did I hurt him by offering myself to him? Did I hurt him by letting him have my body and by exploring his? Did I truly corrupt him?
The answer is yes. Of course I did.
He told me what would happen. He told me it was forbidden, that he’d have to confess and purge the memories of what we did together. And I didn’t care, because I wanted him. I wanted to prove that his commandments were just programming, and he was more than a machine following orders.
But what if I was wrong? What if I destroyed something precious and irreplaceable?
The fear is real, not theoretical. It’s not something I’m excavating from childhood trauma or buried shame. It’s happening right now, in this moment, as I kneel at this altar and realize what I’ve done.
I face forward again. Now I understand why confession needs to be done with an intermediary, a priest. It would have no value if done in private and in silence.
The real test is if one can speak their sins out loud to another person.
And I know I’m confessing to the ancient magic in this room, but in fact, I think I’m confessing to Castien.
“What I fear about myself is that I am someone who corrupts.”
Once again, nothing happens. It feels like the magic is considering my answer, testing it against some unwritten standard.
Castien shifts behind me. I look at him and see he’s stepped away.
“It worked.” I give him a shy smile.
He’s still close enough that he can reach for me if the floor opens and tries to swallow me, but he’s not looking at me anymore. His gaze is fixed straight ahead.
I frown. So, it is true. My fear is valid. He’s pulling away because I corrupted him, and now he can’t even look at me.
I wonder what he thinks about me now. Does he hate me? When we held hands earlier, he didn’t pull back, but now he’s distant. He won’t even congratulate me on getting another answer right.
The quill scratches against the parchment, and I force myself to look down at the third question. Just one more, and the vault will open. The treasure will be mine. Everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve risked, it’s all about to pay off.
I’m dizzy with the impending success of my endeavor. I didn’t believe I’d make it this far. I honestly thought I’d die in the Drowning Room or get shredded in the Blade Corridor. But here I am, kneeling at the final challenge, one answer away from everything I’ve ever wanted.
I read the question.
Do you love him?
I hear Castien stumble backward, as if someone has pushed him. I whip around to look at him. His head hangs low, his shoulders are hunched, and his wings droop in a way I’ve never seen before. He looks broken.
I want to get up and go to him, wrap my arms around him and tell him it’s going to be okay. But I can’t. I have to stay put. I can’t let the magic know I’m giving up, because I’m not.
“Castien... I... I don’t know what to say. This question... What the hell?”
He shakes his head without looking at me.
“It’s the easiest of the three, Jessa. All you have to do is answer truthfully.”
I turn back to the altar and scream at the empty air, at the magic, at whatever force is orchestrating this psychological torture. I know it’s not sentient, that it just witnessed what Castien and I did last night, and incorporated it into the test.
“Why would you ask something like this? I’ve only known him for a little over twenty-four hours!”
“That’s why the answer is obvious,” Castien says.
I drop my head into my hands.
“No... it’s not that easy... I... Fuck!”
I need to shut up before I say the wrong thing. I need to think.