Chapter 17
The cold hit her instantly, the wind howling through the trees as rain lashed against her skin. She welcomed the storm’s bite, letting the air numb the raw wound of betrayal before it could swallow her whole.
She ran.
The mud sucked at her boots, threatening to pull her down, but she pushed forward, her breath ragged, her legs burning.
Her hair whipped against her damp cheeks, strands sticking to her skin as she forced herself to go faster, harder.
She needed to outrun the thoughts clawing at her mind, the cruel laughter she imagined spilling from Callista’s lips, the echo of Alaric’s voice saying, 'I didn’t want it to be like this. '
Liar.
The word burned through her like fire. She gritted her teeth and sprinted harder, her pulse thundering in her ears.
She had been so naive to believe that one kiss could change everything.
To think that the quiet, comforting conversations they had shared meant as much to him as they had to her.
That the way he’d held her, the way his lips had lingered against hers, had been anything more than a fleeting moment for him while it had unraveled her entire world.
She could already picture Callista spreading the truth, delighting in the whispers that would soon follow Evelyne wherever she went. Poor Evelyne, thinking he wanted her. Thinking she was actually chosen.
Rain soaked through her clothes, and mud splattered her legs and arms, but she didn’t stop.
She wouldn’t go near the woods—not at this hour, not when the darkness there felt far too much like the one threatening to swallow her.
Instead, she stayed within the hidden paths of the estate, running until her legs threatened to give out beneath her.
An hour passed before she staggered back toward the manor, her body trembling with exhaustion. She tore off her mud-caked boots at the back entrance and moved on instinct, her steps carrying her to the only place she could think of—the library.
She just needed a moment. A quiet space to breathe. But when she stepped into the room, she stilled.
Cillian sat in the far corner, his back to the window, a book in his hands. But he wasn’t reading. He had been, perhaps, but now his gaze was fixed on her. Evelyne’s stomach twisted—not with embarrassment, not with shame, but with something far worse.
Fear.
His face was ghostly pale, his skin almost gray in the dim candlelight. His forehead was bandaged just above his eyebrow. And his eyes—his eyes were black as ink.
The book slipped from his fingers, thudding against the table, but he didn’t notice. He looked lost. Hollow.
Evelyne’s heartbeat, which had been so wild with rage moments ago, now pounded for an entirely different reason.
“Cillian?” Her voice was barely a whisper, but it may as well have been a scream in the stillness of the library.
He didn’t answer. Didn’t move.
All the anger from the night, the hurt, the ache of it—none of it mattered anymore.
Something was very wrong.
Evelyne stepped forward cautiously, her heart hammering against her ribs. Her drenched clothes clung to her, rainwater dripping from the ends of her hair as she tucked a strand behind her ear with unsteady fingers. She carefully lowered herself into the chair across from him.
“Cillian. Look at me.”
He did. But the moment his gaze locked onto hers, she regretted asking.
Once warm and full of mischief and life, his eyes were nothing but blackened voids, swallowing all light and humanity.
A slow, cruel smile curled his lips, twisting his face into something unrecognizable.
He tilted his head, a predator studying his prey.
“Oh, Evelyne,” he murmured, voice dripping with mockery. “No need to look so sad.”
Horror washed over her like a freezing tide. This was not her brother.
“Always feeling sorry for me,” he continued, his smile widening, warping. His voice had shifted, deepened into something unnatural. “Everyone in this family is always pitying poor, sick Cillian.”
Then he moved, shoving back his chair as he stood, towering over her. Evelyne flinched, her hands trembling against the tabletop.
“When will you all understand?” he hissed, stepping closer. “I don’t need your pity. I don’t need your concerned looks, your whispered conversations behind my back. I don’t need your fear.”
She reached for him; an instinct, a desperate attempt to comfort whatever was left of him. But he recoiled as if burned. In a sudden burst of violence, he smacked her hand away and slammed both fists onto the table. The sound cracked through the room like a gunshot, making her jolt.
“Don’t!” he roared.
Evelyne gasped, tears burning at the corners of her eyes. “Cillian, please… What can I do?”
A humorless chuckle left his lips, and he shook his head slowly. “I don’t need your help,” he spat. “I need to be respected.” He turned and began pacing, his fists clenched at his sides, his whole body tense with barely restrained anger. “She’s right, you know.”
Evelyne’s stomach lurched. “She? Who are you talking about?”
“The woman,” he murmured, almost to himself. “She sees the truth. You all see me as a burden.”
“No, Cillian,” Evelyne said quickly, standing now, desperate to reach him, to break whatever trance he was in. “We don’t.”
But the moment the words left her lips, he whirled on her, his face contorted with something inhuman. His lips curled back, exposing his teeth, and the darkness in his eyes deepened, endless, soulless.
“Liar,” he rasped.
Evelyne’s breath caught in her throat.
“Maybe…” She swallowed hard, trying to keep her voice steady. “Maybe I should get a healer. You might need rest—”
A book flew across the room before she could finish, slamming into the bookshelf with a resounding crack.
“I NEED NO ONE!” he bellowed.
Then, he stormed out, leaving Evelyne rooted in place and shaking as tears streamed down her face. She had never felt fear like this before—not for herself, but for her brother’s soul.
***
Evelyne stirred in her sleep, a chill creeping up her spine. Her brows knit together as she shifted beneath the covers, her body instinctively curling inward against the sudden coolness. Her eyes fluttered open.
Something moved. A whisper of black at the edge of her vision.
The room was dark, but not in the way it should be. Shadows stretched unnaturally, pooling beneath the doorframe. A thin stream of something—was it mist?—seeped from the gap beneath her door, writhing like ink in water.
Pushing back the covers, she sat up, her heart thumping wildly in her chest. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, wincing at the bite of cold against her bare feet. Was she dreaming? The house was utterly silent, yet something about the air felt wrong.
She wrapped her robe tightly around herself and moved toward the door. Her fingers trembled as she reached for the handle, hesitating. An unearthly iciness radiated from the wood, crawling into her bones. Slowly, she turned the knob.
The hallway stretched before her, the air heavy with the sense of an unseen presence watching. She inched forward, but hesitated at the staircase. One glance over the edge, and a sudden rush of fear gripped her.
Below, the foyer was veiled in swirling, inky mist. It slithered and pulsed, stretching toward the walls before retracting, shifting as if alive. What is that?
Her bare feet were silent as she rushed down the wooden steps, but the mist dissipated when she reached the bottom, as if it had never been there.
She stood frozen, skin prickling, the silence of the house pressing in around her. Had she imagined it? Was she sleepwalking? No… Something had been here. She was sure of it. And whatever it was, she couldn’t shake the eerie certainty that it had taken something with it.
***
Alaric woke with a pounding head and a hollow ache in his chest. The morning light sliced through the heavy drapes of his chamber, too bright, too unforgiving.
He groaned, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes as if that could push away the burden of the night before.
But no amount of pressure could erase the image of Evelyne’s face—the devastation in her eyes when she realized the truth.
He hated himself.
The truth of their arranged engagement was never supposed to come out this way.
Not like this. Not in front of her. And yet it had unraveled before his very eyes, slipping from his grasp like water through his fingers.
When he’d told Evelyne he wanted to marry her, he’d meant it.
Every damn word. She was his friend, the first woman who ever truly saw him, and for a fleeting moment, he had believed that what they had—the comfort, the understanding, the intimacy—was real.
But now, it was gone. And he had ruined it.
He spent the morning slumped over in silence at the breakfast table, barely able to choke down his tea, his appetite soured by the stinging rebukes of his parents.
His mother sighed deeply between sips of tea, her disappointment thick in the air.
His father, on the other hand, was not as restrained.
“You humiliated her,” Gaviel Stonebridge said coldly, setting down his utensils with a loud clink. “And you humiliated us. Do you have any idea how quickly word has spread? The entire court is talking about it.”
Alaric had nothing to say. What could he say? He had done this. He had let this happen. And for what? A moment of weakness? A mistake he couldn’t take back?
He should have told Evelyne the truth himself. He should never have let Callista get close to him. He had been a coward, drinking himself into numbness to push back the guilt that had clawed at him all afternoon before the ball. And then Evelyne had asked, 'Have I done something to upset you? '
He had barely kept himself together. Guilt had torn through him, and the urge to tell her everything had been overwhelming. But he hadn’t. Instead, he’d smiled, acted as if nothing was wrong, and played the part of the devoted fiancé—even though he knew she could see right through him.
And then Callista had found him.
He had been vulnerable, drowning in his own self-loathing, and she had seized the opportunity to drive the knife deeper.
He barely remembered the conversation, only how his voice had sounded so lost when he let the truth about the arrangement slip.
And he’d realized his mistake too late. Callista had given him that wicked little smile that meant she had already won, and before he could stop her, she had kissed him.
And then Evelyne had been standing there.
He had felt the moment her heart shattered, had seen it in the way she took a single, staggering step back, her lips parting in silent horror.
He’d wanted to chase after her, to drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness.
But the fury twisting across her face had rooted him in place, like he was trapped between the crushing weight of his shame and the hushed whispers of the onlookers already spreading the scandal.
Coward.
As he sat at the breakfast table, head bowed, he let his father’s words wash over him.
“You’ll be leaving for Velenshire tonight,” Gaviel said sharply. “When you return, you will fix this mess with Lady Duskwood.”
Alaric swallowed against the tightness in his throat. He knew what his father meant. He was expected to mend the broken engagement and pretend last night had never happened. But how could he? How could he face Evelyne after what he had done?
He nodded, though it felt like a weight around his neck. His father left without another word while his mother lingered. But after a quiet sigh, she followed, leaving him alone with his misery.
Alaric clenched his fists against the table and exhaled shakily. He had to fix this. He would fix this. But deep down, he knew that some wounds never truly healed.