Chapter 24
Twenty-Four
The door slams open so hard the hinges shriek, and before I can react, Falcen’s fingers close around my arm.
“Up. Now.”
There’s no prelude, no warning. Just Falcen, eyes like winter steel dragging me out of the chair I barely remember sinking into after an amazing time in the ladies’ washroom last evening. They have bathtubs here. And warm water. And indoor plumbing!
My exhaustion disappeared with a single gasp while sinking into fragrant water, and the next thing I knew, hours were idled away when I should’ve been sleeping.
Except … I must’ve fallen asleep in front of the vanity while combing my wet hair. The hairbrush hanging off the side of my head tells me as much as it clatters to the ground with Falcen’s yank.
“How dare you!” I cry out. “You can’t just barge into my room!”
“I can,” he growls, “and I will.”
His grip deepens, his fingers digging into my skin as he pulls me to my feet. “You’re late for training.”
I stumble, still groggy from my impromptu nap, my bare feet slipping on the cold floor. “Training? What training? It’s the middle of the night!”
“Dawn training. Combat applications.”
I dig my heels in, but it’s like trying to stop an avalanche. He doesn’t give me a chance to protest further, practically hauling me across the room. I pass by the mirror, my hair a tangled mess, bloodshot eyes wide with confusion and fear, the oversized bathrobe hanging off my frame.
We pass the door to Callie’s adjoining room, and I struggle against his hold. “Wait! What about Callie? She was meeting with the Order today. Remember her? Your sister?”
No reaction.
I sputter, “I wanted to check on her, see if she’s allowed to return to the academy.”
“She’s attending classes as usual,” he says without breaking his stride.
“How do you know?”
He nails me with a look over his shoulder. “I have my sources. And don’t ask her why she was imprisoned. Any persistent questions from you will put her at risk. If she breathes a word about it to anyone, her punishment will make a Hollowing look merciful. She’ll be cast into the Void itself.”
My mind spins while I try to keep up with him. The thought of Callie being tossed into that putrid realm forever twists my stomach. But I immediately find a loophole to Falcen’s warning. “Can I ask you? Why did you want to escape this place?”
He whirls, slamming me against the wall, his face a breath from mine. “You’re here to learn, not to make friends and luxuriate in warm baths and soft beds.”
I glare back at him.
“I never asked to be here,” I say. “And if our time with the Master Keeper taught me anything, it’s that I’m no longer of any use to you, either. So much for your bargaining chip.”
It hurts saying it out loud.
A tendon pulls taut from his jaw to his collarbone. “But you are here. And you will train, or you will die. The Void doesn’t care about your comfort.” His lip curls as he rakes his gaze over me, from my sleep-mussed hair to my bare feet. “Get dressed. You have two minutes.”
He releases me so fast, my knees buckle before I catch myself on the armoire’s ornate edge. The wood bites into my palms, a sharp sting that clears the remaining fog of sleep from my mind.
He resents you.
I inhale sharply enough to taste the back of my throat. The ember’s surprise appearance is sibilant this time, and oddly female. Though it’s not wrong. Falcen’s forced to keep watch over me and become my sitter until my magick is less volatile, and for both our sakes, I hope it’s soon.
No. Not because of that.
Then why? I ask.
“Did I stutter?” Falcen rounds on me and points at the armoire. “Get. Dressed.”
I swallow my pride and yank open the wardrobe doors, grabbing the first tunic, corset, and trousers I see. The robe slips off my shoulders, and I dress hastily, fingers fumbling with the unfamiliar fastenings, acutely aware of Falcen seething behind me.
He doesn’t turn away as I change. His stare is like a physical touch gliding down my bare skin, leaving goose bumps in its wake. I forget to breathe until my lungs burn, until I clench my jaw and scold my reflection while I tie my hair up into a tight bun.
“There.” I swing around to face him. “Happy?”
“Not even a little,” he mutters, spinning me by the shoulders and correcting my corset’s laces.
He gives me a few good yanks, making it as tight as possible around my waist. I refuse to ask for mercy, locking my molars together and staying silent.
At last, Falcen lets go, but not before he’s satisfied I’ll split in two if I bend over wrong.
Not exactly motivating for weapons practice, but maybe that’s the point.
The halls are empty when we exit my room, our footsteps bouncing off the stone as he leads me through a maze of corridors. Such a lack of student activity raises the hairs on the back of my neck. It’s rare for the academy to be so deserted.
Falcen’s walking so fast, it’s almost impossible to catch my breath as I’m tugged along. And the amount of twists and turns makes it harder to keep track of where we’re going. Within minutes, I’m hopelessly lost.
Just as I’m about to request a break, Falcen stops in front of a nondescript door. He places his palm against the wood, and it swings open with a soft click, revealing a circular, cluttered room with a domed ceiling.
My lips part, but nothing comes out.
The space is beautiful, in a haunting, otherworldly way.
Swords with hilts carved from jewels and bone.
Shields bearing the gnawed marks of Voidspawn teeth.
A child’s coronet, its gold blackened by corrosion but still glinting with a handful of chipped stones.
Cabinets overflow with precious gems and medals, battered insignia of long annihilated houses, all displayed with the meticulous care of an evil villain’s trophy room.
A massive chandelier hangs from the center of the ceiling, its crystal pendants refracting the soul-light into a kaleidoscope of colors that dance across the floor, the gemstones, the gold.
Falcen releases my wrist, and I rub at the red imprints of his fingers, glowering at him. He ignores me.
I step forward tentatively, my vision as wide as it can go so I can take it all in. “What is this place?”
“Welcome to our forgotten history,” he says. “Vehloria before the Void.”
I wander through the maze of artifacts, careful not to touch. A pair of ornately wrought crowns resting side by side on a velvet pillow catches my eye, their shapes familiar from history books and tapestries hanging in some of Belgrave’s homes.
“Are these the king’s and queen’s crowns?” I ask, shocked enough to sound breathless.
The king’s is a jagged, heavy circlet hammered from black iron. Next to it, the queen’s is delicate, a filigree of pale gold and moonstone, but there’s a hairline fracture running through the center, like it’s been split and soldered back together in haste.
Instead of answering, Falcen cuts in front of me, his cape billowing behind him until a blinding glow makes me flinch back and throw a hand in front of my face.
When the light fades enough to open my eyes, Falcen stands in front of me with his soul-sword.
And now it’s pointed at me.
“Summon your weapon,” he commands.
I blink at him. “My what?”
“Your soul-weapon. The manifestation of your inner power.”
I’ve seen his weapon many times before. Falcen’s blade is impossible to forget. Yet I still back away.
“I’m sorry, but at what point in the entire time we’ve known each other did you see me summon a sword?” I ask.
His lips flatten. “You have one. Every Soulren does. It’s time you learned to wield it.”
I laugh, but it comes out strained. “Right. Of course. Let me just pull it out of thin air, shall I?”
Falcen exhales through his teeth. “This isn’t a joke, Verily. Your first lesson of the day really is combat training. If you can’t defend yourself, you’ll be dead by lunch.”
“And whose fault is that?” I snap, my temper flaring. “You kidnapped me and threw me into the academy, to be turned into some kind of ... of soul-sucking monster!”
“You’re not a monster,” he says, but there’s an edge to his voice that makes me wonder if he believes it.
“You’re a Soulren. And Soulren need weapons.
This is the only place that will help you hone your abilities.
Outside of these walls, you have zero likelihood of survival. In here, you might have a chance.”
He steps closer, the tip of his blade hovering just beneath my chin, lifting it. Its edge zaps against my skin like a cloud of teething spiders trying to pierce through my flesh. But it’s warm, too. Like a buzz of carbonation flowing into my bloodstream.
Falcen circles me, and I’m forced to spin with him, the tip of his blade never wavering from under my jaw.
“Every Soulren has a weapon that reflects their essence. Their personality, their trauma, their very spirit. It’s not just a tool, but an extension of who they are. A cursed relic bound to them.”
My knees threaten to buckle, but spite keeps me upright. “Well, I don’t have one.”
Yes. You do.
My forehead pinches.
Is it you? I ask my ember.
Could a weapon also be a voice inside one’s head that’s not one’s own?
I have a feeling if I mention it to Falcen, he’ll stab me out of pure annoyance because I’m not taking this seriously.
Not me. A blade.
“You don’t have one because you’re not ready,” Falcen snaps, forcing me to refocus on him. “You’re too unstable, but we don’t have the luxury of time for you to find it on your own. So I’m going to assist in the retrieval.”
So am I.
My breath hitches, but I ignore the offer of assistance—or threat—from my ember. I can only deal with one unpredictable variable at a time, and Falcen has a sword to my throat.
“Is that what you call dragging me out of bed in the middle of the night and threatening me?” I counter.
The corner of Falcen’s mouth pulls up, but not with amusement. “If that’s what it takes.”