Chapter 24 Kael
TWENTY-FOUR
KAEL
The chamber of my father’s throne room is colder than the flame-swept stone should allow. But cold is the rule here. Cold and control. The air here always smells like fire that’s forgotten how to burn. Sharp. Acrid. Like memory turned to ash.
My brothers stand like statues flanking the obsidian dais, cloaked in the silence they were bred for. Not one of them glances my way.
I kneel on the onyx floor, fists clenched against stone that pulses faintly with the hum of ancient power. The walls flicker with veins of molten light—slow, steady, oppressive. They beat like a second heart, one that belongs to him.
He hasn’t spoken yet. Just watches me from his twisted iron throne, fingers drumming along the curved armrest as if he’s measuring the weight of my silence.
The throne behind him is forged from war relics and the remains of rebellion—a monument to victory and warning alike.
He rests one clawed hand against the armrest, fingers twitching like he’s counting down to something only he knows.
His horns curve back like blades. His eyes are devoid of anything resembling warmth. But that’s nothing different.
“You are late reporting and behind schedule,” he says at last.
I remain kneeling. “There was a disruption at the school.”
“A disruption,” he repeats, like he’s spitting the word out. “That’s what you’re calling it? She opened the veil, not once but twice. And yet, the girl still breathes.”
“She wasn’t the cause,” I reply.
A mistake. The sound he makes is quiet. But I feel it. In my ribs. In the floor. In the amused scoff of one of my brothers to the right.
“You forget your assignment,” Father says. “You were not sent to be her savior. You were sent to be her restraint. Her correction. A blade poised at the moment before failure.”
He rises, each movement precise. Controlled. Terrifying in its restraint.
I don’t look up. “There were complications.”
“Complications,” he repeats, tasting the word like it offends him. “You were sent to contain a variable, not to let her entangle herself with half the school.”
My jaw tightens. “I’m aware.”
“The prophecy is in motion. We have seen the signs.” His voice turns razor sharp. “Now she dares to enter the Forbidden archives. Your presence was supposed to deter that. You were supposed to stop her.”
I keep my face neutral. But I feel it. That shift. That crackle of magic, like an echo bleeding through stone and realm. She’s there now. In the chamber. The air between us pulling like a thread being tested for strength.
I don’t let it show. Not the pulse beneath my skin. And certainly not the need to go to her.
“You were chosen because you were the coldest of us all,” my father says. “Do not make me regret that.”
I bow my head deeper, though the words blister.
“Contain her,” he commands. “Before her choices write the end.”
The dismissal is silent. But final. My brothers do not look at me as I turn to leave. Only when the chamber door closes behind me do I exhale. Just once. Just enough.
I step through the crossing shadows that split dimensions, back toward a world that burns warmer than it should. And toward a girl I was never supposed to understand, but I do.
Even before I brought her to the Academy. Before I knew her name. At that diner.
The place was small. Mortal. Reeking of grease and burnt coffee.
But she stood behind the counter like she didn’t belong to it at all.
Neon blue hair coiled up in a messy knot, strands falling around her face like paint spilled across canvas.
Too much curve for the uniform she wore, a low level of magic that the humans never seemed to notice.
But I did. She used it casually—subtly—every time a customer grew irate or impatient.
A flicker of suggestion in her gaze, a hum in her words. And they smiled. Every time.
She smiled, too, fake and brittle, but they never seemed to notice. But not at me.
Her eyes caught mine, just once, as I sat in the back corner, pretending to be no one. Blue, luminous, and knowing. Like she was seeing through the glamour I held. Like she knew.
Even then, something pulled at me.
And when I stepped through the wreckage of her apartment hours later—Veilshadows still curling in the corners—she looked the same. Messy. Bright. Terrified.
Hair falling out of that neon twist, baggy sweatshirt slipping from one shoulder, chest rising with fear, lips parted in a startled breath that tasted like power.
I told myself then it was proximity. Curiosity. Strategy. An eagerness to prove myself to my father.
But I haven’t stopped watching since. And that wasn’t part of the instructions. Hell, saving her from the wraith hounds… from the assassination attempt… from the book… from the Council’s binding—I shouldn’t have done any of it.
The prophecy can’t happen if she’s dead. And yet, something makes me step in. Every. Single. Time. Like now.
I don’t head back to my chambers. I head to the Forbidden Wing—where her energy is still spiking like a flare in my veins. The magic lingers like smoke in the air, clinging to the walls, to my skin. The chamber door groans open beneath my hand.
Inside, the light from the book has faded to a pulse. Nolan stands at the center, tucking the damn thing under his arm like he’s about to take it on a joyride through the academy. Tamsin’s beside him, wide-eyed but smug, like she knew this was a bad idea and came anyway.
And then there’s her.
Lindsay.
The glow from the pedestal still clings faintly to her skin. She’s not touching the book, thank the cursed skies, but she’s too close. Always too fucking close to danger.
“Well,” I say flatly, “I believe I specifically said stay out of the Forbidden Wing. But sure. Let’s ignore the demon’s one damn request.”
She turns toward me slowly, chin tilted, arms crossed. “What is it with powerful men and Forbidden wings, anyway?” She lifts a single brow. “What are you, the Beast? Should I be worried there’s a rose dying upstairs somewhere? Or that you are going to lock me in a cell?”
Despite myself, my lips twitch. Just once.
Tamsin groans. “Oh no. We’re doing the snark-foreplay thing again.”
Nolan stiffens like he’s considering using the book as a shield if I threaten any of them.
I take a step inside, gaze locking on Lindsay’s. “This place is dangerous.”
“So am I,” she replies, shifting her shoulders defensively.
This time her words gain her a smile. She’s accepting it. My father would be furious that she’s gotten this far. That I let her.
My gaze flicks to the book under Nolan’s arm, still faintly pulsing against his ribs.
“You need to hand that over,” I say, gesturing at it. “Now.”
Nolan tenses. “Why?”
“Because she’s not supposed to touch it,” I snap, not bothering to mask the edge in my tone.
“Not now. Not ever. And if you’re planning to parade that thing through the halls like it’s your thesis project, someone else is going to make sure she does touch the book.
Someone that knows what happens if she does. ”
He doesn’t move, but his grip on the book tightens.
“I’m not going to let anything hurt her,” he says, quieter this time.
“I’m not worried about what would hurt her,” I reply. “I’m worried about what she will wake up.”
Lindsay shifts forward slightly, her expression unreadable. “You said I’d burn down this place if I let it wake up, didn’t you?”
“I said you could,” I correct. “And that still stands.”
Tamsin mutters under her breath, “Great. Good. So we’re just one magic book away from spontaneous combustion. Love that for us.”
I extend a hand to Nolan. “Last chance.”
He looks at Lindsay. She nods once. Small. But enough to signal she trusts me with it. He steps forward and slowly places the book into my hand.
The moment I touch the book, something shivers beneath my skin.
Faint. Subtle. Like a spiderweb of magic stretching toward me—then retreating. Not gone, but watching.
The pulse from the pages is no longer warm. It’s cold now. Cold like home. Ancient, coiled, waiting. I don’t think the others feel it. Nolan just exhales like a weight left his arms. Tamsin shifts on her feet with a huff.
But Lindsay’s watching me now.
Her eyes narrow just slightly, catching the change in my expression. I school it back into blankness. Just a flicker, but the book’s magic felt familiar. It shouldn’t have.
Lindsay crosses her arms again. “Just because we gave it to you doesn’t mean I don’t want to know what’s in it.”
I meet her gaze. “Want and need aren’t the same thing.”
Her jaw sets. “And you get to decide which is which?”
“No,” I say. “I don’t think I could keep the book from you if I tried. But for now, I’ll put it in a safe place.”
Something in her expression falters, not from fear, but from that damn curiosity that always makes her run toward the dark instead of away from it.
I tuck the book beneath my arm and glance toward the door. “If you’re smart, you’ll stay out of this wing from now on.”
She doesn’t flinch. “You said that last time.”
“And you didn’t listen.”
Behind her, Nolan shifts like he wants to step between us again, while Tamsin mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like, “Oh great, round two of broody boy banter.”
I ignore them. My eyes stay locked on hers.
“If you open it again,” I say, “don’t do it without me.”
Lindsay blinks, caught off guard. “Why?”
“Because I’d rather be the monster standing beside you than the one who finds your body after.”
She doesn’t answer. But the flicker behind her eyes says she hears me.
Every damn word.