Chapter 42
OPHELIA
Iwoke slowly, drifting up from the depths of a sleep so heavy it felt like a spell. My body was a map of ache and pleasure—a beautiful, throbbing soreness that lived in my thighs, my bruised lips, and the sensitive skin of my breasts where the wax had hardened and peeled away.
I stretched, a low, contented hum vibrating in my throat. The scent of him—pomegranate, brandy, and sex—was soaked into the pillows, into the sheets, into my very pores. I reached out blindly, my hand sweeping across the mattress, expecting to find the hard, warm wall of his chest.
I found only cold silk.
My eyes snapped open. The space beside me was empty. The pillow was uncreased, as if he hadn't slept at all. There was no note on the nightstand, only the burnt-down stub of the black candle we had used.
Disappointment, sharp and sudden, pierced the hazy glow of the morning. I sat up, pulling the sheet against my chest.
He is busy, I told myself, pushing down the sting of abandonment. He is the insufferable Prince of Death. He probably had to manage the fallout of... whatever happens when a male like him finally loses control.
Needing something to ground me, something to prove that last night wasn't a fever dream, I reached for the nightstand. My fingers brushed against the worn leather cover of the book he had left.
The Cenitus Lex—but wrapped inside was his mother’s journal. The book he had let me read.
I pulled it into my lap, tracing the gold-leaf title. As I did, my thumb caught on a ridge inside the back cover. The leather lining was old, peeling slightly at the corner.
I frowned. There was something underneath.
With a strange, trembling urgency, I picked at the seam. The leather gave way, revealing a folded piece of parchment, yellowed with age, pressed flat against the binding.
I unfolded it. The handwriting was elegant, looping, and hurried.
My dearest Cain,
If you are reading this, you have survived your father’s cruelty long enough to become a male. I do not have much time—the visions are getting stronger, and I fear my next labour will be my last.
Your father sees only darkness in you. He sees a weapon. He believes the Void in your blood will one day swallow the world, and he intends to teach you to fear any light that might challenge it. He will tell you that a Life Heir is your enemy.
He is wrong.
I have seen the truth, my sweet boy. The Void is a hunger that cannot be filled, only balanced. You are not destined to destroy the world, but you are walking a knife's edge. Without an anchor, the silence will eventually take you.
The Life Heir is not your doom. She is your salvation.
Only a creature of pure Life can withstand the gravity of your soul. She is the only one who can handle your pain. But you must let her in before the madness takes root completely. If you find her, do not deny her. Let her love you. It is the only thing that will keep the monsters at bay.
Love,
Mother
The letter slipped from my numb fingers, fluttering to the quilt like a dove landing.
A slow, trembling smile stretched across my lips, chasing away the shadows of the morning.
"Oh, Cain," I breathed, the realisation blooming in my chest like a flower opening to the sun at last after the longest winter.
He didn't know. All this time, he had been fighting a war against his own heart, believing his father’s lie. He believed I was the catalyst for his destruction, the trigger for the apocalypse.
But he was wrong. We weren't the end of the world. We really were the balance.
"We are meant to be," I whispered to the empty room, a fierce, giddy hope taking root in my soul.
The prophecy wasn't a curse; it was a promise. I wasn't his weakness; I truly was his anchor. He didn't have to fear the madness anymore. He didn't have to fear us.
I scrambled out of bed, clutching the parchment to my chest. I had to find him. I had to show him this. I had to tell the most powerful, terrified male in the world that he was finally, truly free to love me.
I slid out of bed, wincing slightly as my muscles protested, and grabbed his black silk robe from the floor. It engulfed me, smelling of him, and I cinched the belt tight.
I opened the door to the main suite.
"Well," a dry, judgmental voice chirped from the velvet armchair. "Look at what the cat dragged in. Or rather, what the wolf chewed up and spat out."
Poppy was sitting there, her tail twitching, her golden eyes narrowed in mock scandal.
"Good morning to you too," I muttered, moving toward the vanity to splash water on my face.
"You look ridiculous," Poppy continued, hopping down and trotting after me. "Your hair is a bird's nest. You smell like a distillery. And you're radiating enough smug satisfaction to choke a horse. I assume the treaty negotiations went well?"
I caught my reflection in the mirror. My lips were swollen, my neck marked with bruises that turned my cheeks pink. But my eyes... they were bright. Alive. Terrified, but alive.
"They went... thoroughly," I said, unable to suppress a grimace.
"Disgusting," Poppy declared, though I felt her relief washing over me through the bond. "Go eat. You must be starving from all the depraved sex you have had all night with your unhinged husband.”
I went downstairs, expecting to find Cain brooding at the head of the table. Instead, the dining hall was empty. My place was set—silver platter, fresh fruit, warm bread—but the rest of the table was barren.
I ate alone, the silence of the house pressing against my ears. It wasn't the peaceful silence of yesterday. It was heavy. Pregnant.
The doors opened, and Silas entered. He looked impeccable as always, but his movement was stiff. Too precise.
"Good morning, Lady Alistair,” he said, bowing low, and a little too formal for how close we grew after my kidnapping.
"Where is he, Silas?" I asked, cutting to the chase.
Silas straightened, fixing his gaze somewhere over my left shoulder. "Lord Cain was summoned to the Consortium on an urgent matter regarding the border wards. He left before dawn. He instructed that you remain within the estate until his return."
A lie.
My Empathy caught it instantly—a sharp, metallic taste in the air. I was no Enlighter, but this was a big fat lie. Silas was terrified. But he was Silas. He wouldn't lie to me unless he thought it was absolutely necessary.
"I see," I said slowly, putting down my fork. "Thank you, Silas."
He nodded and retreated quickly, as if afraid I would ask more.
"That felt wrong," Poppy whispered in my mind, her fur bristling.
"I know," I whispered back.
I abandoned my breakfast, the sweetness of the figs suddenly turning to ash in my mouth. I wandered the silent halls, seeking the one soul who couldn't lie to save his life.
We found Friedrik on the terrace overlooking the dead gardens. The gargoyle was pacing—actually pacing—his heavy stone claws gouging lines into the granite.
"Friedrik," I called out.
He jumped, spinning around. His amber eyes were wide, swirling with a chaos I had never seen in him.
"Little Ophie," he croaked. "You should be inside. It's... it's going to rain."
The sky was perfectly clear.
"Where is he?" I demanded, marching up to the massive stone creature. "Don't lie to me, Friedrik. Silas already tried, and he's better at it than you."
Friedrik crumbled. His shoulders slumped, and he looked at the ground.
"He's not at the Consortium," Friedrik rumbled, his voice shaking. "He's... he's gone dark, Ophelia. Worse than ever before."
"What do you mean?" My heart began to hammer against my ribs.
"He came out here before dawn," Friedrik whispered. "He wasn't speaking sense. He kept repeating it. Over and over."
"Repeating what?"
"The Thresholds are falling," Friedrik said.
Cold dread washed over me, instantly extinguishing the warmth of the morning.
"Why didn't you wake me?" I demanded, my voice shrill. "If he was acting like this, why didn't you or Silas come get me?"
Friedrik wrung his massive stone hands. "Because we didn't know it was real this time, Ophelia!
He has been acting strange ever since he brought you back from Malathor's.
Silas caught him sleepwalking three nights ago, standing in the middle of the courtyard, muttering about how the world was too loud for you. "
"Sleepwalking?" I breathed.
"He hasn't been sleeping at all," Friedrik confessed, his yellow eyes filled with guilt.
"He wanders the halls. He stands outside your door, listening.
We thought... we just thought the rescue broke something in him.
We thought he was just being protective.
Overwhelmed by having you back. He always broods, Ophelia.
We didn't realise the Void was actually taking over until this morning. "
"What happened this morning?"
"He put the armour on," Friedrik whispered, pointing a trembling claw toward the southern edge of the gardens, toward the old stables. "He didn't look like Cain anymore."
I didn't wait. I ran.
I sprinted through the dead grass, my bare feet slipping in my slippers, the oversized robe billowing behind me. Poppy raced alongside me, a streak of gold panic.
I burst into the lower clearing.
There, standing beneath the twisted branches of a dead oak, was a horse. His massive black war-steed, its coat like oil, its eyes burning with magic. It pawed the ground, snorting smoke.
And beside it stood Cain.
I stopped dead, my breath catching in my throat.
He wasn't wearing his robes. He wasn't wearing the clothes I had torn off him last night.
He was decked in full armour. The Knight Death armour. Obsidian plates etched with markings that seemed to writhe and bleed. His helm was in his hand, the massive sword strapped to his back.
He looked like a fallen god of war. He looked like the end of the world. He did not look like mine anymore.
"Cain!" I shouted, rushing forward.
He turned slowly.
The scream died in my throat.
His face was a mask of marble. But his eyes... oh gods, his eyes.