Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Asharp thump tears me from sleep. I jolt upright, disoriented, heart pounding. Afternoon light still streams through the windows. The clinic. I'm at the clinic.
The pounding comes again, urgent and relentless. The cages behind me rattle as I shove back from the desk and rush to the door. When I wrench it open, I find Draven on the other side, and the look on his face stops my breath.
His dark eyes are wild. He pushes past me without waiting for an invitation, scanning the room like he expects to find enemies hiding in the corners. I shut the door and watch him, unease coiling in my stomach.
His locs are tied back loosely, and he's dressed for movement: sleeveless tunic, dark trousers, boots meant for running. I've never seen him like this outside the training grounds. Never seen him look afraid. That's what makes my gut clench. Draven doesn't do afraid.
"Is it Jordi?" My voice comes out sharper than I intend. "Did something happen?"
"I know as much as you do." He whirls to face me, and those dark eyes pin me in place. There's always been something otherworldly about the way he looks at people, like he's seeing through skin and bone to whatever lies beneath. "I'm looking for Bain."
"Oh." I reach for the bond instinctively, exhale when I find it warm and intact. "The clinic is warded. If that's what you're worried about."
He shoots me a questioning look.
"I assume you're worried about silent guards." I gesture at the high windows near the ceiling. "Unless you expect Malachi to come crashing through those?"
The corner of his mouth quirks. "That would be a sight."
"Not for the one who'd have to rebuild the wall."
He shakes his head, a ghost of a smile crossing his face. He's quiet for a moment, then: "Do you remember the argument you and—"
Pounding on the door cuts him off. I hold up a finger and turn to answer it.
Malachi fills the doorway. The afternoon sun catches him from behind, gilding the edges of his dark hair, throwing the planes of his face into sharp relief.
He's wearing a short-sleeved tunic the color of deep water, and his arms are bare, all golden skin and corded muscle.
Something in my chest tightens at the sight of him.
His gaze drops to what I'm wearing. The sheer ivory blouse. The decorative wings cascading from my shoulders to my hips, gold and ivory lace catching the light. His eyes trace down to my leather pants, my boots, and back up again, lingering on the wings like he's trying to commit them to memory.
Behind me, Draven clears his throat pointedly. I step aside to let Malachi in. He doesn't look away from me as he crosses the threshold. I exhale and shut the door behind him.
When I turn, Draven and Malachi are pulling apart from a brief embrace, the kind warriors share. Draven's attention returns to me immediately.
"As I was saying. Do you remember the argument you had with Jordi at the estate when he first started his apprenticeship?"
I raise an eyebrow. "You'll have to be more specific."
"It was after dinner. We were outside." His eyes glint with something like mischief. "You were wearing a red leather dress. Gold earrings."
Malachi's head snaps toward him. "How do you remember what she was wearing?"
"It was a memorable dress," Draven says, slow and deliberate.
The glare Malachi levels at him could melt iron.
"What was the argument about?" I ask, biting back a smile at the tension radiating off Mal.
Draven's expression sobers. "You said you believed in the society the Council and Sages built here. That it was worth protecting." His eyes search mine. "Do you still feel that way?"
The question catches me off guard. "I've always had issues with Lunaris. But it's safe here. Stable. There's no violence outside the dueling arena, and even those matches aren't meant to kill."
"Unless there's an execution," Draven says quietly.
"Those are rare. Once a year at the festival, and usually it's banishment, not death." I cross my arms. "I hate the control. I disagree with nearly everything the Council does. But I don't hate living in Veritas." I pause. "For the most part."
Malachi's quiet laugh sends warmth through the bond. "For the most part."
"The Sages say I'm a contrarian with a problem with authority." I shrug. "I'd probably find something to complain about anywhere."
Amusement flickers through the bond, bright and warm.
I turn back to Draven. "I've never gone hungry. I've always had shelter. I've never feared for my life." I pause, considering my own words. "Until recently, anyway. So yes, I value what Lunaris provides. Even if I hate how it provides it."
He nods slowly, something unreadable in his expression.
"Why are you asking me this?"
"I was wondering if your perspective had shifted," he says. Before I can respond, his tone sharpens. "You remember how to access the tunnels?"
I blink. "Is this about the vault?"
He nods, then turns to Malachi. "Cato's hunters have arrived."
I stare at him. "Hunters? Who are they hunting?"
"His heir." Draven's jaw tightens. "Cato believes his son is here. In Lunaris."
"He believes he may be here?" My brows rise. "He doesn't know for certain?"
"Apparently not."
Something clicks in my mind. The memory trade. The selective erasure. "Can I ask you something personal?"
Draven nods.
"I've heard you retained most of your memories from before Lunaris. Everything except Cato." I study his face. "Do you know why? Or how that's even possible?"
"Freida told me my incantation was different from the standard ceremony. Different words, different intent." He shakes his head. "I couldn't tell you what that means. But there are journals in the vault, written by the scholars who created the elixir. If answers exist, they'll be there."
Different incantations. Different intent. It's always been the missing piece, the thing none of us could explain about the welcoming ceremonies. Why some residents forget everything while others retain fragments. Why some lose themselves entirely.
I file the information away, another thread in a tapestry I'm only beginning to see.
"Kage and I discussed it," Malachi says, his voice shifting into something harder. More commanding. "We think it's best if you go ahead of us. Back to Vindariel."
Draven goes still. "With all due respect, I have to refuse." His voice is careful, controlled. "The last time I left you behind, I ended up trapped here for a decade. This is the final Reckoning. We cannot afford mistakes."
"You think I don't know that?" Malachi's scowl deepens. "If Cato's hunters found their way here, it means the wards in Vindariel may be compromised. If they fall, the others will need reinforcement."
"Vick has held the line for three centuries. I doubt my presence will tip the scales."
Malachi sets a hand on his shoulder. The gesture is firm. Final. "I am asking you to go."
Draven's eyes narrow. "Asking."
"I wouldn't if I didn't believe it was necessary."
Draven's jaw clenches. The silence stretches, taut as a bowstring.
I watch them, fascinated despite myself. Draven is broader and more imposing than even Malachi. The kind of man who commands attention simply by existing. And yet, there's no question who holds authority.
Malachi's hand on Draven's shoulder isn't a request. It's a reminder of rank. Whatever hierarchy exists between them, Malachi sits at its peak. Finally, Draven exhales. Something in him yields, though reluctance still lines his face.
"I don't like it. But if that's what you need, I'll wrap things up here and leave as soon as I can."
Malachi clasps his shoulder once, then turns to me. "Are you ready?"
I think of the blood oath I swore. The tunnels I've never taken an outsider through. The secrets I'm about to betray. I give a sharp nod. "Ready as I'll ever be."
Seven red doors are scattered across Lunaris, tucked between shops and homes, unremarkable except for the faded Veritas signet carved into the stone above each one. Most residents walk past them without a second glance. A few notice. Fewer still wonder what lies behind them.
I've heard the speculation. A hidden burial ground. A repository of Veritas secrets. A passage to the underworld itself.
All of it is partially true, but none of it captures the whole. And since those of us with access have sworn blood oaths to keep silent, the full truth will likely never surface.
My steps slow as we approach. The red door looms before us, ancient wood weathered by salt air and time. I stop in front of the small bronze dish mounted beside it and stare at it for a long moment. Freida told me once that these dishes predated the streetlamps.
In the old days, they were lit to illuminate the keyholes for travelers arriving after dark. A kindness, disguised as function. But the dishes beside the red doors serve a different purpose. They're not illumination. They're keys.
"What is it?" Malachi's voice is low beside me.
I look up at him. "When I was granted access to these doors, I swore a blood oath. Never bring outsiders into the tunnels. Never speak of what lies within." I swallow. "I'm about to break both."
He's quiet for a moment. "What happens if you break it?"
"I don't know." I laugh, but the sound comes out thin. "I suppose we're about to find out."
His expression darkens. "That's not funny, Ada."
"I know." I meet his eyes. "But the alternative is staying in the dark, and I'm done with that."
I exhale and turn back to the dish. Beneath it, a small compartment holds shards of something dark, flint or obsidian, ancient and sharp. I catch them as they fall, arrange them in the dish, and summon fire to my palm.
The flame catches. Holds. The lock groans, a sound like old bones shifting. "I need you to—"