Chapter 26 #2
"Do you understand, Valerius?" Cain whispered, his voice dripping with venom. "Do you want to stay and watch me take her? Because I will. And you will be powerless to stop me. I will ensure every piece of her is irrevocably mine."
Caspian was shaking, unable to move, his eyes locked on my face, reflecting only betrayal and annihilation.
Cain released my neck with a final, brutal shove, leaving me reeling.
“You’re a monster,” I said, my voice a low, raw accusation, my gaze locked on Cain. “You could have killed him.”
Cain’s lips curved into a slow, mocking smile.
“He is not dead, because death is too kind for you both,” he whispered, his eyes blazing with dark triumph.
“I will spare his life so that he can live in the memory of his failure, and so that you can live knowing that the male who truly possesses you is me. You will never be free of either of us. This is the beginning of your torment, Ophelia. Not the end.”
The dark satisfaction in his core was immediate and absolute. He felt the pain—the regret and jealousy—recede instantly, replaced by the perfect, cold clarity of total control.
I looked from the male I loved, broken on the floor, to the monster who owned me, standing in dark triumph.
I felt the devastating truth of Cain's words.
I was a pawn, but I knew the game had just escalated to true, eternal psychological warfare.
I was now caught between two males—one who saw me as his unattainable future, and one who saw me as a necessary torment.
I looked at the cold, silent victor and made a silent, internal vow.
"I won't just find his weakness, Poppy," I thought, the raw anger a cold fire in my core. "I have to find the precise spot where his Void is thin, and dismantle him piece by agonising piece. Eventually, we will really need to breach the library."
We were nearing the Threshold—the magical gate that would transport us from this neutral, political ground where Cain had to conclude this mission, back to the mausoleum that was the Alistair estate.
Cain, towering and rigid in his armour, was still fuming, his glacial gaze fixed straight ahead, furious that Caspian had dared to show his face near his possession.
It was then I saw it.
Or rather, I saw him.
A flutter of midnight wings in the high vaulted rafters caught my eye. I looked up, just for a second.
It was the raven. Evar.
He was perched on a gargoyle sconce, his black eyes fixed on me with that same chilling intelligence I had seen in London. He didn't caw. He didn't make a sound. He simply tilted his head, acknowledging me, and then opened his beak.
A tiny, sharp piece of colour fluttered down from the ceiling, spiralling silently through the stagnant air. It landed against the flawless obsidian floor, inches from my boot.
A slip of heavy paper, scarlet red, folded into a tight square. Elegant, mocking script, visible only to me, spelled my name across the top.
Cain didn't notice. His gaze was fixed forward, his mind consumed by the need to get us back to his territory.
I stopped abruptly. Cain, already halfway to the shimmering arc of the Threshold, halted when he realised I wasn't at his heel.
"Move," he commanded, the single word a low, guttural warning that vibrated through the air.
“I dropped something,” I murmured, my voice pitched low, praying the distraction was convincing enough.
I bent down quickly, my spine arching in a gesture of deliberate vulnerability.
My heart pounded, recognising the scent of the paper even before my fingers closed around it—that sharp, chemical tang of Malathor's deceit.
I straightened, the letter clenched in my hand, and met Cain’s glare.
His jaw was flexed, his patience nonexistent.
I quickly and deliberately slid the folded scarlet paper into the bodice of my gown, pushing it deep into my cleavage where the fabric was tightest, knowing that the location was both secure and would be impossible for him to retrieve without a public act of appropriation.
He saw the movement. His eyes narrowed, a flash of rage crossing his features before he mastered it. He didn't ask what I had picked up. He didn't need to. The concealment was enough of an offence.
Without a word, he reached out, his massive, iron-gauntleted hand wrapping around my wrist, the crushing cold instantly biting into my skin. He began to drag me toward the Threshold, his stride long and relentless.
"Home," he said, his voice dry and contemptuous.
Home, I scoffed internally, the thought bitter as ash. As if that granite mausoleum is anything but a glamorous coffin.
My shorter legs were no match for his punishing pace.
I stumbled, struggling to keep my balance as the metallic scent of the Threshold magic began to pool in the air.
The lack of coordination clearly annoyed him.
After a few dragging steps, he released my wrist with a sharp, impatient push, allowing me to fall back.
He didn't turn to ensure I was following; he simply continued, his broad back an uncompromising, dark wall of indifference.
Right before we passed through the disorienting light of the archway, he turned to me, and his now gauntlet-free hand took mine in an almost painful grip, and we stepped through.
The world twisted, folded, and snapped back into place.
We stood in the grand, echoing foyer of the Alistair estate. The air here was dead, smelling of ancient stone and unlit candles.
Cain didn't speak. He didn't even look at me.
The moment his boots hit the black marble, the shadows of the room seemed to rise up to greet him.
With a swirl of his cloak and a ripple of pure darkness, he and Rhana vanished into the upper corridors, likely retreating to his room to purge the remnants of the day.
I was left standing alone in the cold silence, Poppy shivering on my shoulder.
"Let's go," I whispered, my hand clutching the fabric of my dress where the letter burned against my skin.
I fled to my chambers, locking the heavy door behind me. My hands shook as I finally retrieved the scarlet square, the paper warm from my body. I sat on the edge of the massive bed, Poppy hopping down to inspect the object with suspicion.
"That thing reeks of a trap, Ophelia," she hissed, her fur bristling.
I unrolled the parchment. The script was elegant and cruel.
Lady Ophelia,
I write this in the hope that I am wrong. I hope that when you read this, the Valerius boy is safe at home, and you are content in your duty.
But I know you. I know your sacrificial nature. I know that you believe the only way to save the things you love is to cut them out of your heart.
My sources in the Valerius household tell me that Caspian has prepared a contingency for when—not if—you try to sever the tie. He does not intend to accept your rejection. He believes your cruelty is coerced, and he plans to breach the Alistair perimeter tonight to prove it.
And if he fails to reach you... if he is left with nothing but your silence... he has prepared a final exit. He does not intend to see another sunrise without you.
You are trying to break his heart to save his life, Ophelia. But you are dealing with a boy who values love over breath. You may have inadvertently signed his death warrant.
I can facilitate an intervention. I can give you the chance to talk him down from the ledge before he commits the unthinkable.
Eastern Garden. Ruined Fountain. Tomorrow at midnight.
Do not trust your husband to spare an intruder. Trust only yourself to save the boy.
— A concerned friend, Malathor
I dropped the paper onto the duvet, heedless now. My hands were shaking, not with fear, but with a devastating mixture of hope and strategic fury.
“He is lying about being a friend,” I whispered, staring at the invisible stamp of the seal—a heart breaking a bone.
“But he is not lying about Caspian’s instability.
I saw his eyes in that chamber, Poppy. He was broken.
He didn't look like a boy who was going to accept a goodbye; he looked like a boy who had nothing left to lose.”
The thought of Caspian bleeding out on the black stones of the Alistair estate—either by his own hand or because he foolishly tried to fight Cain—was a terror that eclipsed everything else.
Seeing him so defeated on the floor moments ago, his golden falcon crushed beneath Rhana's paw, made the threat in the letter feel sickeningly plausible.
Malathor wasn't just threatening his future; he was weaponising my own conscience against me. He was playing the elegant diplomat, offering me a chance to talk Caspian down from the ledge before he forced Cain to slaughter him.
Cain would destroy the intruder without hesitation. Malathor was claiming he could stop the intrusion before it began.
"This is a trap, Poppy. A perfect, malicious trap," I murmured, my eyes fixed on the darkening window. Midnight was only a few hours away.
“Then we don't go, Oph! We burn the paper.”
I stood up, pacing the room. “He knows I hate Cain. He knows I cherish Caspian’s memory. And he knows that if I don't go, and Caspian dies tonight, the guilt will destroy me.”
I had to know how Malathor planned to override the wards.
“We are going, Poppy,” I stated, my voice low and final. “We are going to give Caspian his goodbye, and we are going to find out exactly why Consul Malathor is so desperate to meet alone with the Prince of Death’s new wife.”