Chapter 30
Thirty
One week after the Void widow incident, Falcen continues his duty as my handler with the temperament of a crop plow with sand in its gears.
He appears every morning at the crack of dawn, his uniform immaculate and his eyes hooded, to bark at me through training drills, then vanishes without a word the moment his oversight is no longer contractually required.
Today, however, he was different. When Falcen demonstrated a defensive stance, I caught a glimpse beneath his collar. His tattoos, normally confined to his forearms, have crept higher.
“Falcen,” I said quietly when he passed close to me. “Your tattoos.”
His hand flew to his neck, fingers pressing against the skin as if to force the markings back down. Our eyes met briefly before he growled, “Focus on your form,” and broke our stare.
I remember our time in the Void and the way black veins crawled across his face when I pushed my soul-magick into him. And I remember the half-second in the arena last week when his pupils changed to half slits before becoming normal again.
Something’s happening to him, but he refuses to let me intervene.
I drag myself back to my chambers, every muscle screaming in protest. Today’s session was particularly brutal.
Falcen had me summoning and banishing my weapon repeatedly until my hand felt like it had been dipped in molten glass.
The veins on my palm pulse an angry crimson as I push open the heavy door to my room.
Tonight, my gilded cage is both too large and too suffocating. Moonlight filters through the tall windows, casting elongated shadows across the plush carpet where I collapse, unable to make it to the four-poster bed that beckons from across the room.
My training leathers stick to my skin, salt-crusted and rank with sweat.
“Pathetic,” I mutter to myself, mimicking Falcen’s cold assessment from earlier.
Rolling onto my stomach, I fumble with the laces of my corset, each movement sending fresh waves of agony through my overworked shoulders. When it’s finally off my body, I flop onto my back in my dirty black tunic and close my eyes.
Ember chooses that moment to stir within me, a warm flutter that feels almost sympathetic tonight.
“Don’t pretend you care,” I mumble. “You’ve been suspiciously quiet all week.”
She offers no response, just a gentle feathering that feels almost like a shrug.
“He’s going to kill me before the academy gets a chance,” I mutter to no one in particular.
I wouldn’t allow that to happen.
Ember’s warmth sparks bright, as though amused by my pessimism. I can almost feel her settling into my bones, making herself comfortable as I lie sprawled across the floor like discarded laundry.
Since the Void widow incident, she’s been like this, distant and muted. I hate to admit how much I miss her commentary, even her mocking laughter. At least when she was needling me, I knew I wasn’t truly alone.
With a groan, I force myself to sit up. My muscles protest, but the stench of my own sweat has become unbearable. I need to bathe, and the small basin in my room won’t suffice tonight.
As I push myself to my feet, I catch a glimpse of movement through my window of a dark figure crossing the courtyard below. I freeze, pressing closer to the glass. It’s a Veil Keeper, but not one I recognize.
It’s the third unfamiliar Veil Keeper I’ve spotted this week.
I still pull back from the window. The academy crawls with Keepers, yes, but recently I’ve noticed them more frequently around me. And those I’ve noticed all seem to be positioned along my daily routes.
Yesterday, I noticed two of them stationed outside the archives, where I’ve decided to study in private.
No one else seems to want to go there, surrounded by a destroyed monarchy, not even Rook.
The day before that, another Keeper stood at the training arena entrance, watching my every move as Falcen drove me through drill after punishing drill.
“Why are they watching me?” I whisper to myself.
Ember flickers with what feels like shared suspicion.
During the fleeting moments when Falcen barked more than one order at me, he assured me that he filed a falsified incident report designed to obscure what really happened with my soul-weapon and the widow in the arena.
He made no mention of Ember, either. Falcen’s Elite status grants him limited power to stall inquiries, but only temporarily, and as I count the increasing Keepers around me, I’m wondering if that hold is becoming strained.
But what have I done? I’m a remnant. I’m strange. My powers are volatile. They know this. Are they keeping an eye on me because they’re afraid of what I might do?
What of Falcen, then? Why aren’t they watching him and noticing the changes in him that I am?
A desperate need for clean water and solitude drives me from my chamber. I slip into the hallway, grateful for the shadows between torch sconces. The communal bathhouse lies at the far end of the dormitory wing. At this hour, past midnight, it should be deserted.
Curfew started an hour ago, but I know the patrol rotations by now. The Hollows who monitor the dormitory halls pass my door every quarter hour, their shuffling footsteps as predictable as Falcen’s scowl.
The bathhouse is tucked into the eastern wing of the dormitory, a remnant from when the academy was the royal castle decades ago, when it was the queen and her ladies’ quarters. I pause at each intersection, listening for the telltale sounds of Hollows or worse, Veil Keepers, before darting across.
When I push open the heavy oak door, I’m greeted by a cathedral of water and stone.
My first sight of it was breathtaking, noticing the high domed ceiling where intricate mosaics depict the creation of Vehloria.
Surrounding stained glass windows cast jewel-toned reflections across the large, steaming water pool’s surface.
Ornate pillars rise from the corners of the massive pool and glow softly with glyphs that use soul-magick to maintain the perfect temperature.
And the air, thick with steam and the scent of mineral salts, makes me inhale deeply.
The exhale that follows stalls when I notice that in the center of it all, sits Callie.
She’s half-submerged in the water, her back to me, ivory hair piled loosely atop her head.
Thin wisps escape to curl against her neck, darkened by moisture.
It’s nothing out of the ordinary until my gaze travels to her shoulders above the waterline.
They’re no longer the sharp, angular blades I remember from the catacombs, but fuller and smoother. She’s gained a needed amount of weight.
Still, I freeze at the entrance, self-conscious about interrupting her solitude, but before I can retreat, she turns.
“I wondered when we’d find each other in this place,” she says with a half smile, her voice echoing.
The transformation in her profile alone is striking. Her face has lost that sickly gray pallor, replaced by a healthy flush across her cheeks. Her amber eyes, once dull and haunted, now focus on me with surprising speed.
“I didn’t think anyone would be here this late,” I say, hesitating at the edge of the pool. “I can come back another time.”
Callie waves a hand, water droplets cascading from her fingertips. “Don’t be ridiculous. We haven’t seen each other in forever. And,” she adds with a pointed look at my sweat-stained tunic, “you clearly need this more than I do right now.”
I can’t help but smile at her bluntness. It’s refreshing after days of Falcen’s clipped commands and stony silence.
“Your brother has been particularly brutal lately,” I explain, slowly lowering myself to sit at the pool’s edge, my boots still on and legs dangling above the water. “I think I’ve developed muscles in places I didn’t know existed, and they’re all screaming.”
Callie’s expression darkens momentarily at the mention of Falcen, but it passes so quickly I almost miss it. “You’ve made the connection, I see. He’s always been relentless. Even as children.”
This casual reference to their shared past catches me off guard. Callie has never voluntarily mentioned her relationship to him before.
“So you two really did grow up together?” I ask, testing the waters both literally and figuratively as I dip my toe in.
The heat is divine, instantly soothing my aching joints. But how deep is the water? I can’t tell if Callie can touch the bottom because she keeps moving through the pool with a fluid grace. Last time, I went into one of the smaller tubs.
Ember gives a single, burning spark of warning, then retreats. I’m not sure if it’s because of the water and my lack of skills, or Callie.
Alerted, I glance around, taking in the bathhouse’s splendor more fully.
Alcoves line the walls, each containing small benches and hooks for clothing and waiting robes.
Steam rises in lazy spirals from the water’s surface, creating an ethereal mist that dances beneath the stained glass.
The colored light filtering through creates patches of ruby, sapphire, and emerald across Callie’s shoulders.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmur, finally becoming brave enough to slip out of my tunic.
“Ancient, too,” Callie adds. “The springs beneath us are said to have natural healing properties outside of the manipulation of soul essence.” She lifts her arm from the water, and I notice how her movements flow with a newfound elegance, like liquid silver. “I believe it.”
“You’re healing,” I say, finally allowing myself to acknowledge the transformation. The statement feels inadequate compared to her dramatic change.
Callie gives me a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “The academy wants to see what I can still do. I’m giving them a reason to keep me. The other adepts say I’ve been ‘revitalized.’ As if I were a plant that simply needed watering.”