Chapter 11
Though it tugged at her heart to leave Cillian unchecked, Evelyne knew he needed rest more than anything. So she let him be, resolving to wait until morning, and sent word inviting him for a walk at first light.
The air was cool and carried the scent of coming rain.
Evelyne and Cillian walked carefully along the damp path beyond the garden, the manor standing behind them.
Somewhere at Stonebridge Manor, their father was deep in his meeting…
hopefully focused on trade and alliances, and not Cillian’s condition.
Evelyne glanced at her brother. He looked pale but steady, the profound exhaustion from the night before softened in the morning light. She had insisted on this walk, eager to pull him away from the hovering servants and suffocating care. And beneath the open sky, he looked better. More at ease.
Her mother’s words lingered in her mind: “Perhaps he just needs someone to listen to him.” Watching Cillian cautiously, she wondered if her mother had been right. For now, Evelyne let the silence settle between them, setting aside her fears and questions. This moment was for him.
When Cillian finally spoke, it was barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry, Evelyne,” he said, his gaze fixed on the dirt path ahead. Every syllable sounded heavy with guilt, leeching the strength from his voice. “For everything. For scaring you. I’m… trying to understand it myself.”
Evelyne halted mid-step, turning to face him fully, her expression softening. “You don’t need to apologize to me, Cillian. I want to understand. Please, tell me what’s happening.”
He hesitated, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he glanced toward the horizon.
“I don’t think this is an illness,” he admitted.
“Not the way they say it is.” He raked a hand through his hair, the motion frantic, like he was trying to claw the thoughts from his mind.
“There’s a woman. I keep seeing her. But it’s more than that.
It feels like something is inside me… waiting.
Waiting for me to surrender to it. And I see these images…
” He paused, as if thinking. “Strange, symbolic things I can’t explain. ”
The faint quiver in his voice sent a ripple of unease through her, but she forced the fear down. Now wasn’t the time for panic; he needed calm. Steeling herself, she asked, “A woman? Like someone in a dream?”
“No,” he snapped, his head jerking toward her.
“Not dreams. It’s different. She’s… it’s there, in my mind.
Not just when I sleep, but when I’m awake, too.
And the symbols feel like something else—like a signal.
Or a warning. Or—” He broke off, dragging his gaze down, hands trembling.
“I don’t know,” he muttered. “I try to block her out, Evelyne. But it’s like something’s inside me, slowly eating away at my soul. ”
Evelyne stepped closer, gently resting a hand on his arm. “Cillian, you’re not going insane,” she said firmly. “I believe you. Whatever this is, we’ll figure it out. Together.”
He met her gaze, and for a moment, pain gave way to a flicker of hope. “You mean that?” he asked softly.
“Of course I do,” she replied without hesitation. “But you have to tell me what you need. What can I do to help?”
He let out a tired breath, his shoulders sagging. “I wish I knew,” he murmured. “But I have to keep reading. I have to understand what’s happening.” His eyes flicked toward the distant sky. “That’s why I had those books with me.”
“Oh,” was all she managed to say. “I’ll be here, Cillian. Whenever you need me.”
He gave a small nod in thanks and kept walking.
Evelyne watched him closely, noting how the open air had eased something in him. It was clear that isolation and whispered consultations weren’t helping; their father’s methods had done little but make him feel more confined.
A cool raindrop kissed her cheek, pulling her gaze to the darkening sky, but she let Cillian continue ahead, choosing not to interrupt the calm he’d found.
Still, her thoughts stirred. When her father returned, she would speak with him.
Cillian didn’t need more rest; he needed direction.
Something to hold on to. Something that reminded him of who he was.
Though the rain crept in and the cold clung to her, she stayed close, savoring the rare peace of simply being with her brother.
***
Cillian remained in his dimly lit chamber, having told the servants to let his parents know he would dine alone.
He wasn’t sick, not in the way they thought, but he couldn’t handle another night of their wary glances and careful words.
He needed to understand it all, but the books he’d taken from the library offered little clarity; only fragmented tales of ancient witches and lost magic that felt exaggerated, even absurd.
Yet he couldn’t dismiss them entirely. This couldn’t be magic; the idea was ridiculous.
But it wasn’t an illness either—not one that could be treated with tonics or endless examinations.
Once, he had believed the healers’ theories of possible neurological disorders, but after countless tests and failed treatments, their explanations no longer satisfied him.
Today’s walk with Evelyne had offered a rare sense of peace.
She hadn’t judged or pried, just listened.
He hadn’t told her everything, not the full extent of the visions or the symbols that haunted him, but speaking even a little of it out loud had lessened the weight on his chest. Still, the visions remained: a gnarled tree and fleeting glimpses of a crimson moon.
They felt carved into him, and were impossible to ignore.
Seated at his desk, Cillian began sketching the tree again, just as he had the other night.
His hand moved on its own, tracing its twisted form, but his thoughts drifted elsewhere.
To the woman in his visions. Draped in black, with snow-pale hair and lips like fresh blood.
Her smile walked the line between enchanting and cruel.
Beautiful, yes—but there was danger in it.
And her voice? That was the real weapon.
Each word a trap, soft-spoken and barbed.
He hated that her attention meant anything to him, that her words could reach a part of him he didn’t even recognize. He wasn’t like the other young men. He stuck to quiet corners, lost in books, watching rather than participating in conversation.
Maybe that was why her attention felt so thrilling.
The last time she’d appeared, he had been outside, though he couldn’t remember why. One moment, he was at the breakfast table, and the next, he was crouched in the dirt with Evelyne and Alaric hovering over him. The memory sent a shiver through him. What had they seen? What had he done?
He shook himself free of the thought and opened another book, flipping through pages he had already read twice. His eyes traced the faded text, but his concentration faltered as a knock sounded at his door. “Come in,” he called, hurriedly closing the book and sliding it onto the shelf.
His father entered, the sharp lines of his tailored suit cutting an imposing figure in the small room. Cillian straightened instinctively. His father rarely visited his room.
“I met with Gaviel Stonebridge today. Alaric, thankfully, did not mention your… episode.”
The word struck him like a blow. Shame coiled in his chest. Cillian looked down at his desk, unable to meet his father’s gaze. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.
Brushing past the apology, Aron moved farther in and took a seat at the bed’s edge. What startled Cillian wasn’t the intrusion, but the unexpected gentleness in his father’s expression.
“Evelyne told me she walked with you today. She believes it did you good to get out of the house.”
Cillian nodded, unsure how to respond.
After a pause, his father spoke again. “I need to go to Velenshire tomorrow for business. I think it would be beneficial for you to come along.”
Cillian wasn’t sure about the offer, but his father didn’t make gestures like this often. So he didn’t overthink the reason behind it—just the tiny hope that his father was making an effort was enough for him to accept.
“Alright,” was all he could manage.
His father nodded once, rising to his feet without another word. He left the room as briskly as he had entered, leaving Cillian to sit in the heavy silence that followed.
Cillian turned back to his desk, his gaze settling on the sketch of the tree.
Whatever awaited him in Velenshire, he clung to the hope that it might bring him closer to unraveling the mystery of this curse, or whatever force had taken hold of him.
Velenshire was renowned for its extravagant library, a trove of ancient tales and records chronicling the continent’s history.
Perhaps, if he could steal a moment away from his father, he might delve into its shelves and uncover the answers he so desperately sought.
***
The streets of Velenshire pulsed with quiet energy as Cillian stepped beyond the lantern glow and fading hum of night.
Slick cobblestones shimmered beneath the dim light, and shadows stretched across buildings of worn stone and dark wood, their peaked roofs jutting like silent sentinels into the star-flecked sky.
The crisp air carried the scents of smoke and earth, and the faint sweetness of roasted chestnuts.
Yet beneath it all, something hung in the silence.
Like the town itself was holding its breath.
Cillian wandered the streets while his father met with Lord Shaw to discuss some vague matter of business, details he was never privy to.
Truthfully, he was relieved not to be dragged along.
He preferred the freedom to explore on his own.
Each turn revealed another quiet corner of Velenshire, its charm unfolding around him.
His attention snagged on a swaying shop sign that read Relics and Refinements. Something about it beckoned, like an unseen thread drawing him forward.
As he stepped inside, a bell chimed softly, and warm, jasmine-scented air wrapped around him. Shelves brimming with polished stones and tiny, elaborate figurines made the shop feel like it had barely enough room to breathe.
Behind the counter stood the shopkeeper, her kind smile paired with a crown of brown curls laced with silver that glimmered like moonlight in the glow of the lamps. Her eyes seemed to pierce through Cillian’s carefully constructed composure as if she could sense his unease, his questions.
“Evening, young man. What can I help you find?”
Cillian cleared his throat. “Good evening. I’m looking for the library. I was told it’s near, but I have lost my way.”
The woman’s smile widened, revealing slight laugh lines around her mouth. “Ah, you’ll find it just a street over. Follow this road until you see the baker’s shop, then turn left. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.”
She chuckled softly. “Go on, now. Don’t keep the books waiting.”
He left the shop with clear directions but an unsettled sense that the woman knew more than she let on.
The path she described led him to the library, a building that loomed like an ancient guardian in the heart of Velenshire.
Its columns rose toward the heavens, their surfaces etched with weathered patterns.
The air inside was cooler, laced with the scent of ancient parchment and timeworn bindings.
Towering shelves loomed on either side, their sheer height and closeness casting the aisles in quiet shadow.
As Cillian followed the elderly librarian, he let his fingers drift across the spines, each one whispering of forgotten knowledge.
When he found himself alone, a hush settled over the space.
Then something stirred. It wasn’t a sound exactly, but a sensation, like a note held just beyond hearing.
It drifted through the silence and curled around his thoughts, coaxing him forward.
As if the books themselves were singing, and one voice among them was calling just to him.
His fingers hovered, then closed around a particular volume: The Concord of Shadows: A Forgotten Rite.
Its cover was cracked and blackened with age, yet it thrummed faintly under his touch.
He flipped through the pages, skimming them to grasp what secrets the book might hold, until his eyes fell on an illustration—a tree.
Almost the very tree from his visions, except this one breathed with life. His heart plummeted.
Snapping the book shut, he pressed it tightly under his arm, fearing it might vanish, and carried it to the counter. The librarian’s eyes lingered on the volume, her lips pressing together briefly before she handed him a cloth bag.
“Treat it well,” she said softly. “Some things find you when you’re ready.”