44. When Heaven Falls
When Heaven Falls
My heart thundered against my ribs as I raced back through the corridor, the elegant architecture that had seemed so enchanting mere moments ago now a labyrinth of death. Sweat slicked my brow, remnants of heat still clinging to my skin.
"Thatcher," I whispered. I reached through our twin bond, only to find it clouded, as though shrouded in the same smoke that now curled through the hallways.
Which door? Which godsdamned door had he disappeared behind? They all looked identical now. I tried to remember the flash of silver-white hair, the direction they'd turned, anything that might guide me to my brother before?—
Before he burned.
A scent hit me then, so visceral and wrong that my stomach heaved.
Burning meat.
I stumbled toward an open doorway, drawn by some morbid instinct I couldn't name. What I saw branded itself into my memory.
A contestant writhed on a bed of silk sheets that were rapidly turning to ash.
Their back arched in what might have been mistaken for ecstasy, except their skin was melting , sloughing off in blackened chunks that hissed and bubbled.
Flames licked up their limbs, consuming everything they touched.
Beneath them, an illusion flickered and faded—a perfect replica of some divine being, dissolving into nothingness as its victim burned alive.
The contestant's mouth opened in a silent scream, lips already charred beyond recognition. Their eyes—gods, their eyes were still intact—bulged from their sockets.
Bile scorched my throat as I tore my gaze away and staggered backward. My heel caught, and I nearly fell, catching myself against the wall with trembling hands.
I looked down.
My heart stopped.
Olinthar lay sprawled on the marble floor, his handsome face frozen.
A starblade— my starblade—protruded from his chest, buried to the hilt in the exact spot I'd pictured driving it countless times.
His blood pooled black and viscous around the wound, spreading in a perfect circle that was far too symmetrical.
The scream building in my throat died as a terrible understanding bloomed. This wasn't real. This was my illusion—crafted from the secret I guarded most fiercely. The revenge I'd dreamed of.
My hidden desire, made manifest.
Cold horror drenched me, dousing the panic with something far worse.
The viewing portals. If they could see the illusions—if all of Voldaris was watching right now—then everyone knew.
My most carefully protected secret, the darkness I'd managed to conceal through the first two Trials, was now laid bare for all to witness.
They could see what I truly was. What I truly wanted.
My legs gave out, and I crashed to my knees beside the phantom corpse, more bile rising in my throat.
Shame. Guilt. Pain.
I was exposed.
The air around me compressed, squeezing my lungs until I couldn't breathe. I dragged myself to my feet, forcing leaden limbs to move, to carry me away from the evidence of my darkest desire. None of it mattered now. Not the trial, not the divine court. Nothing mattered except?—
"Thatcher!" I screamed, both aloud and down our bond. I pushed forward, forcing my legs to carry me past the horror of Olinthar's body, past rooms where more screams erupted, more flesh burned.
The smell was overwhelming now, a miasma of cooked meat and scorched hair that coated my tongue, my nostrils, seeping into my very pores. I tried not to gag, tried not to think about what— who —I was smelling.
Door after door yielded nothing but empty chambers or scenes too ghastly to comprehend. I slammed each one shut, moving faster now, desperation lending speed.
"Thatcher, godsdamnit, answer me!" I couldn't feel him anymore, couldn't sense that familiar presence that had been with me since before birth.
I threw open another door, expecting more death, more fire.
Instead, I found my brother.
Thatcher sat in an ornate chair, shirtless, his pale skin gleaming with sweat that steamed in the air around him. Straddling his lap was the silver-haired woman I'd glimpsed earlier, her back to me as she moved against him. His hands gripped her hips, his head tipped back in abandon.
But his skin. It glowed from within, a red light building beneath the surface. Steam rose from every point of contact between them. Veins of fire carved themselves through his eyes.
"Thatcher!" I screamed, lurching forward.
He turned toward me, movements sluggish, expression dazed. Recognition flickered across his features as he struggled to push through whatever spell had taken hold.
"This is the third trial," I gasped, stumbling toward him, my hand outstretched. “She’s not real!"
I grabbed his arm and nearly screamed at the contact.
His skin burned like a forge, searing my palm.
But I refused to let go, dragging him bodily from the chair, away from the phantom lover who was already beginning to dissolve, her perfect features melting like wax, revealing the nothingness beneath.
"Thais?" His voice was rough, confused. "What's happening?"
"Later," I panted, pulling him toward the door. "We need to run. Now."
The corridor outside had transformed in the short time I'd been searching. What had once been elegant hallways were now channeling heat, flames licking up the walls, consuming everything in their wake. The ceiling groaned ominously above us.
As we staggered through the growing inferno, words caught my eye—golden script that seemed to float above the flames:
WHEN HEAVEN FALLS, ONLY THE SKY REMAINS
The messages—I had to make sense of them. To find the rules hidden within the cryptic poetry. We needed to escape this burning palace—that much was clear. But how? We were suspended in the fucking clouds.
Thatcher's clarity seemed to be returning with each step, the unnatural fire in his eyes receding. "The ballroom," he croaked, voice raw from smoke. "We need to find the others."
We navigated the crumbling architecture, ducking beneath falling beams and leaping over patches of floor that had given way to reveal the endless drop below.
The grand ballroom, when we finally reached it, was unrecognizable from the place of revelry it had been.
The firepits that had seemed so decorative earlier leaped beyond their confines to consume everything within reach.
The space was empty of people but filled with destruction. Chandeliers had crashed to the floor, their crystals shattered across the marble. The elegant draperies had become conduits for flames that crawled and ripped across the vaulted space.
"This way," I urged, spotting a corridor that seemed less consumed than the others. We had taken only a few steps when Thatcher froze, his entire body going rigid beside me.
"Thatcher?" I turned, following his gaze .
There, untouched by the flames, stood two figures that made my heart stop. A woman with dark hair and the same indigo eyes as ours. And beside her, Sulien.
"Thais, no," Thatcher whispered, his voice breaking. "They're telling us to go this way." He pointed down a corridor engulfed in flames, where the two figures gestured urgently, their expressions concerned, loving.
For one heartbeat, I wavered. The woman's face—my mother's face—was everything I'd imagined in my darkest nights. They were offering the family that had been ripped from us, the life we should have had.
A beam crashed nearby, sending sparks skittering across the floor between us, and with it, my momentary weakness shattered.
"Thatcher, it's not real," I said, smoke burning my lungs. "They're illusions, just like the others."
He took a step toward them anyway, his face a portrait of naked longing that cut me deeper than any blade could have. I seized his arm, physically dragging him away from the phantom family that had never been ours to keep.
"It's not real," I repeated, this time letting my own grief seep into the words. "I wish it was. Gods, I wish it was."
Something in my voice reached him where logic couldn't. His expression crumpled, then became carefully blank, the vulnerability sealed away behind walls I recognized too well.
"If they're trying to lead us that way," I said, nodding toward the flame-engulfed corridor, "then we need to go in the opposite direction."
He nodded, and followed me.
We pushed forward, away from our ghosts, into a passageway that seemed marginally safer. The smoke was thickening, making each breath a struggle. I pulled the torn remnants of my gown up to cover my nose and mouth.
Then, cutting through the roar of the flames, I heard a voice.
"Marx! Listen to me, dammit!" The tone was unmistakable even through the chaos.
"Kyren," I gasped, changing course toward the sound. We rounded a corner to find him kneeling beside a huddled form, his normally stoic face creased.
Marx was curled into a tight ball, her beautiful gown now torn and soot-stained, her body racked with sobs.
"They’re dead because of me," she was saying, over and over. "The two contestants—I cursed them, Kyren. I just wanted to watch—they went up in flames because of me. It’s been so long since I lost control like that!"
"No, Marx, you didn't," Kyren insisted, trying to pull her to her feet. "Get up now. We have to go."
I rushed to them, dropping to my knees. "Marx," I said, taking her face between my hands, forcing her to look at me. "This is the third trial—it's testing our desires, our weaknesses." I glanced at Kyren. "We need to find an exit."
His eyes met mine with grim understanding. "I knew something was wrong the moment the illusions appeared," he said. "I can always distinguish reality from falsehood. I've been searching for you three since the fires started spreading."
Together, we managed to get Marx on her feet. Thatcher kept glancing back the way we'd come, as though the illusions of our mother and father might still be there, waiting for him to return.