15. Rylan
15
RYLAN
T he envelope is waiting for me when I return to my study.
It’s a simple thing—no seal, no name. Just dark parchment, folded with precision, left exactly where I would find it.
Someone had been here.
Someone had walked through the fortress of my home, through the guarded halls of the Midnight Den, and left this.
I don’t move right away.
I listen.
The room is silent, save for the faint crackling of the fire. The air is still, no trace of another presence lingering. But that means nothing. The kind of people who send messages like this—the kind of men who slip past doors and guards and all the barriers I’ve built—don’t leave traces unless they want to be found.
A slow exhale. I reach for the parchment.
My fingers barely brush the surface before I feel it.
A shift. A pulse.
Dark magic.
Not active, not dangerous—not a curse. But a signature. A whisper of power laced into the fibers of the paper. A calling card.
I flip it open with careful fingers, scanning the inked words inside.
They are few. Precise. Too sharp, too intimate.
I read them once. Then again.
And my breath slows.
The past is not as buried as you think.
It’s waiting. Watching. And it wants what was stolen.
Shall we dig up the bones together?
No name. No signature.
But I don’t need one.
I know exactly who sent this.
Nhilian.
My pulse remains steady. My breathing, even. But something coils inside me, cold and lethal.
I fold the parchment once, twice, tucking it between my fingers.
I throw it into the fire.
The flames devour it instantly. The black parchment curls, twisting into smoke, and yet the words linger, burned into my mind.
I know what he’s saying.
I know exactly what he means.
The past isn’t buried.
It’s been waiting for me.
And now? It’s coming.
–––––
I pour myself a drink.
The glass trembles slightly against the surface of the desk. I grip it tighter, lifting it to my lips, letting the burn of the wine anchor me.
I should have known this was coming.
Nhilian has always been patient, playing the long game, shifting pieces before his opponent even realizes the board has changed.
And now, he’s made his first move.
A warning. A taunt.
An invitation.
I let out a slow, measured breath, pressing my fingers against my temple.
The past is not as buried as you think.
What does he know?
What has he found?
I stare into the fire, watching the last traces of the parchment turn to ash.
If Nhilian wants to dig up old bones, then fine.
I’ll show him a graveyard.
The door creaks open behind me.
Seraphina lingers in the doorway, but I feel her gaze, sharp and cautious, scanning the space before settling on me.
She doesn’t speak right away.
Good. She’s learning.
I take another slow sip of my drink before finally turning to face her.
She’s dressed in the same tunic she wore earlier, the fabric loose where the bandages wrap around her ribs. A reminder of what I let happen. What I sent her into.
Her hair is still slightly damp, as if she had tried to wash away the blood, but there’s a stiffness in her stance, a wariness she hasn’t shaken.
She shouldn’t be here.
And yet, she is.
I lean back against the desk, tilting my head slightly. "Couldn’t sleep?"
She exhales sharply, stepping further inside. "Didn’t try."
Liar.
Her eyes flick toward the fire, narrowing slightly. "What was that?"
I lift a brow. "What was what?"
"The parchment," she presses. "The one you burned."
I smirk. Clever girl.
"It wasn’t important."
Her arms cross over her chest, and I shouldn’t be amused by how unimpressed she looks.
"You only burn things when they are important."
I chuckle, swirling the last of my wine. "And you only ask questions when you already know the answer."
Her gaze sharpens.
She doesn’t move, but I feel the shift in her, the quiet realization that whatever I destroyed wasn’t just a message.
It was a threat.
She doesn’t ask again. Instead, she exhales, moving closer, fingers brushing the corner of my desk.
"You’re worried," she murmurs.
I hum, tilting my head. "You sound surprised."
"You don’t worry."
"I don’t show it," I correct. "That doesn’t mean it isn’t there."
She studies me, gaze flickering over my face, as if searching for something.
I let her look.
Let her try to read me, piece me together.
She won’t. Not fully.
But she gets closer than most.
Her fingers tighten against the desk. "Who was it from?"
I don’t answer.
Not immediately.
Instead, I shift forward, closing the last of the space between us.
Her breath catches.
Not in fear.
In something else.
"Careful, little thief," I murmur, voice low. "You’re asking the wrong questions."
Her eyes flash. "And what are the right ones?"
I reach past her, lifting the half-finished glass of wine from the desk. Not touching her.
But close enough that I could.
Close enough that I want to.
I take a slow sip, watching her over the rim of the glass.
"Not the ones you want the answers to."
Her throat bobs slightly as she swallows.
A slow, deliberate pause.
"Then tell me anyway."
The fire crackles.
The silence stretches.
“Stay out of it.”
I left her standing there waiting for an answer that won't come.
Should I tell her? If I do, she’ll be pulled even deeper into this war.
I’m not sure I want to watch someone else burn.