Chapter 21 #2
My pulse pounds in my ears. His exhales heat my cheeks while I count each dark curl of his lashes. He’s beautiful, in a cold, untouchable way. Like a perfectly honed soul-blade.
I lick my chapped lips, not missing the way his gaze flicks down to follow the movement. “I think you see me as a threat. An unstable element in your settled, routine, soul-thirsty life. You’re upset because you can’t control me.”
“Yet.”
Falcen’s retort is flat—an emotionless one syllable. Yet my knees turn to greyberry jelly, and my hand tightens around my bag’s strap.
Screw this.
I move to pass him, but he grabs my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh through the fabric of my sleeve. He leans in close as he murmurs, “If you ever speak to me with such insolence again, I’ll make your month in the catacombs feel like a holiday. Are we clear?”
I grit my teeth, a retort burning on my tongue. But I force myself to nod stiffly. “Yes, Resonant.”
This isn’t the man who saved me from Void hounds. The one who I shared a fire with and clung to as we whipped through a Void tear and only had each other’s stubbornness to rely on for survival.
This is, he is, the exact kind of Soulren I had described to me by my mother, and then my grandmother. Pious, callous, and brutal.
My disappointment in him is made clear by the long, cool look I give him before I catch myself on the banister and haul my way down the rest of the staircase.
I hurry into the Grand Hall, my heart refusing to stop ricocheting between my spine and ribs. Falcen’s heartlessness cuts deep, despite my attempts to harden myself against him. But the nerve of him, treating me like some errant rodent in the corridor after everything we’ve been through together.
The memory of his strong arms around me as we rode the nether drake, the warmth of his body pressed against mine, that kiss we shared, feels like a cruel joke now.
I shake my head, dispelling the memory.
My focus returns to the hall just as a wave of cold washes over me. It has nothing to do with the drafty castle and everything to do with the figures lining the walls.
In deep alcoves, eight statues stand frozen in agony, four on each side.
Carved from a stone so black it seems to drink the light, they contort in unnatural poses.
One is bent backward, its mouth open in a silent, eternal scream.
Another claws at its own throat, features melting into a grotesque mask.
Callie was right. One side screaming as they sacrifice their healing magick for that of the dark arts, and the other side feeding as they submit to the transformation.
A palpable chill radiates from them, a deathly cold that seeps into my bones and makes my soul ache with a terrible, familiar resonance.
It takes effort to tear my gaze away, and when I do, it lands on a heap of shattered white marble.
The former queen’s carved statue is broken, snapped off at the waist, her head with her half-destroyed face lying a few feet away from her flowing skirts.
She died here, and here her ruined monument remains, a permanent reminder of a kingdom’s brutal end and the rise of the Soulren.
This is the power we inherit.
This is the destruction we are capable of.
I force my feet to move past the fallen monarch and her monstrous conquerors and catch myself at the last second, skidding to a halt on the polished floor.
I spot the second doorway on the left and make my way toward it, keeping my steps light and my breathing shallow, half expecting Echoes to come swirling out of the walls at any moment.
But I reach the Hall of Theorems without incident, the long corridor stretching out before me, lined with closed doors on either side.
I take a deep breath, straighten my cloak, and push open the heavy wooden door at the end.
The classroom is cavernous, with tiered seating arranged in a semi-circle around a raised dais at the front. The seats are filled with students, all of whom turn to stare at me as I enter, their expressions ranging from mildly curious to outright hostile.
Thank the gods class hasn’t started yet. I spot an empty seat near the back and start toward it, keeping my head high. I refuse to cower, even as whispers and snickers follow me.
“Well, well, the leftovers have decided to grace us with its presence,” a voice drawls from my left.
I glance over to see a young man lounging in his seat, his long legs stretched out in front of him. I recognize him immediately.
His eyes, a startling shade of green against his deep brown skin, rake over me with undisguised disdain. “Looks like the academy is truly growing desperate these days.”
I clench my jaw, fighting the urge to insult him. Instead, I meet his gaze head-on. “I remember you.”
“Do you, now?”
“Oh yes.” I keep my tone light and conversational. “You were the one groveling at an Elite’s feet in the forge. Tell me, did you ever get the smell of fear-sweat out of your tunic? Or do you just wear it as a reminder?”
Several students nearby chortle, quickly smothered.
Davrin’s eyes grow small, but not before they flash with malice.
He sits up straighter, his languid posture abandoned.
“Careful. Now that you don’t have an Elite to protect you, I can say how I really feel.
You’re a skid mark. A leftover shit stain nobody wants. ”
I tilt my head, keeping my expression pleasant despite the sting of his insult.
“Protect me? Is that what you think happened? Because from where I was standing, it looked like he was protecting you from embarrassing yourself further. It’s good to see you’ve recovered from that last encounter. You’re walking upright and everything.”
More laughter ripples through the nearby seats. Davrin’s face turns thunderous.
“You don’t know when to shut your mouth, do you?”
He stands, and I realize he’s taller than I thought, with broad shoulders and a muscled build that comes from years of training.
I refuse to cower, even as my mind screams at me to run. But Callie’s warning plays on a loop inside my head. Don’t hold back, but don’t be stupid either.
“Verily Holbrook,” I reply, keeping my voice clipped as I reluctantly take the only spare seat available—next to him. “And it is not a pleasure to meet you.”
Dismissing his seething features, I turn to face the front at the exact time a hush falls over the classroom when the door swings open again and a tall, imposing figure strides in.
His silver hair gleams under the soul-light sconces, his navy robes swirling as he ascends the steps with a lupine grace that puts me instantly on edge.
When he turns to face us, his eyes, one a murky brown and the other a piercing gold, sweep over the room with a gaze that seems to penetrate the walls. I feel it like a physical touch when that unsettling stare lands on me, a prickling sensation skittering down my spine.
“Good morning,” he says, his voice a low timbre that commands attention. “Most of you know who I am, but for those who are just starting today …”
“It’s you. You’re the only one starting today,” Davrin mocks as he leans over.
I jerk away from him, shooting him a glare even as my cheeks flood with embarrassment.
“You may refer to me as Keeper Malakai, your instructor for Essence Theory.”
A respectful murmur of “Nox’s tides, Keeper,” ripples through the room. I find myself mouthing the greeting, too.
Malakai begins to pace along the edge of the dais, his hands clasped behind his back. “We have a new initiate joining us today. Verily Holbrook.”
Every head swivels to stare at me again. I am not growing to like it.
“Miss Holbrook is a unique case,” Malakai continues. “A late awakening, and one of unprecedented resistance to corrupted souls, if the reports are to be believed, which is why she is with us and not learning elementary levels with the other promising children.”
Davrin leans over again. “Are you sad you don’t get to play colored blocks with the younglings? Can you even read?”
“Shut up,” I hiss under my breath.
I force myself to hold Malakai’s gaze, refusing to flinch under the weight of his scrutiny. The imbalance of his mismatched eyes sends a shudder across my shoulders, but I won’t give him or anyone else the satisfaction of hearing so much as a whimper.
At last, he breaks my stare and addresses the classroom, but his question is clearly directed at me. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-and-three summers,” I answer.
Gasps ripple through the room. Davrin laughs outright.
“Twenty-and-three summers,” Malakai repeats, circling closer.
“Most Soulren awaken between five summers and ten. The academy collects them and begins their training before the hunger becomes unmanageable.” He stops behind me.
“But you spent a decade blissfully unaware while your power festered. Tell the class, when you finally awakened, what happened?”
My throat tightens, but I manage to answer, “Someone died.”
“Someone.” He doesn’t move from behind me. “And what did you do with that valuable soul, Initiate?”
“I-I don’t know.”
The classroom erupts in whispers.
“Quiet.” Malakai’s whip-strong command silences the room. “You’re fortunate it was only one.”
Blood roars in my ears.
“Most late awakenings result in far worse,” Malakai continues. “Entire families. Sometimes villages.” He turns to scan the room. “Who can tell me why such terrifying magick exists in our realm? What is the Soulren’s purpose?”
Hands shoot up. He points at a severe-looking girl with a slicked-back ponytail who stands. “Thirty years ago, the parallel realm known as the Void managed to open a massive tear through the veil between our world and theirs. Voidspawn poured through and began slaughtering—”
The door crashes open.
Two third years in their scarlet leathers haul a man between them. His hands are bound, mouth gagged. Blood crusts beneath his nose.
They throw him to the floor at Malakai’s feet, his impact making a wet sound.