Chapter 18
The morning air was crisp, threaded with the scent of wet earth and rain left behind by the night’s storm.
Puddles shimmered in the early light, and the sky hung low, still heavy with its passing rage.
Evelyne stood beside the carriage, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as she watched Aurelia bid farewell to their parents.
Aurelia’s husband, Leopold, had finally returned from his business travels, and it was time for her to leave. With everything that had happened the night before, Evelyne was reluctant to see her sister go.
Aurelia turned to her, the warmth in her eyes dimmed by concern. Without a word, she pulled Evelyne into a firm embrace, holding her as if she could shield her from the burden of everything left unspoken. Evelyne sank into her arms, but it did little to calm the turmoil within.
Everyone knew what happened between her and Alaric at the ball.
Still, she avoided their curious looks, unwilling to relive it, especially after what had unfolded in the library with Cillian.
Her mother had come to her room before she fell asleep, standing quietly in the doorway, waiting.
But Evelyne’s anger had still burned too hot, disloyalty settling heavily in her chest. She couldn’t bear to look at her.
“I can’t talk to you right now,” she’d said, her voice tight with emotion.
Her mother hadn’t argued, hadn’t pled. She’d turned and walked away, closing the door softly behind her.
But Aurelia understood. Evelyne saw it in the sadness in her eyes, in the brief hesitation before she finally stepped back. For a moment, it seemed like she didn’t want to leave.
Her voice broke through the silence, a whisper against Evelyne’s ear. “You’re stronger than you think, sister. Don’t let them make you feel powerless.”
Evelyne’s throat tightened. She wanted to hold on to her, to say that all was not well, that she felt as though she stood at the edge of a vast, unknowable abyss. But the words never came. She only managed a nod.
Aurelia pulled back slightly, her hands resting on Evelyne’s arms. “I know you, Ev. Whatever it is, don’t carry it alone.”
The lump in Evelyne’s throat grew, but she forced a small smile. “I’ll miss you.”
Aurelia searched her face for a long moment, before finally stepping into the carriage.
As the wheels began to turn, sending the vehicle rolling down the long, muddy path away from the manor, Evelyne remained frozen.
The crisp breeze seeped into her skin, but it wasn’t the cold morning air that unsettled her.
Something felt wrong.
She turned toward the house, her thoughts tangled, the unease in her chest blooming into a heavier dread, an urgency that clawed at her. It wasn’t only Alaric’s lie that haunted her now.
Where was Cillian?
He had not been outside to see Aurelia off. He would never miss saying goodbye to family, no matter how ill he had been. The realization sent a sharp pang of fear through her, and she quickened her steps, heading inside.
The house was quieter than usual, a stillness that made her tense. Evelyne’s apprehension deepened with each step as she moved through the dim corridors, the echo of her footsteps the only sound in the vast manor.
She hurried to the servants, her voice tense as she asked each one—had they seen her brother?
Spoken to him? Heard anything? The answers were all the same: a shake of the head, a quiet “No, my lady.” His young red-haired handmaid, always by his side, only stared back with wide, uncertain eyes. No one had seen him since last night.
The storm had been fierce, wind howling through the trees and rain hammering against the manor with relentless force.
It would have drowned out the sound of anything: a door opening, footsteps slipping away into the night.
Had Cillian left of his own accord, vanishing into the darkness while the tempest raged?
Or—ice creeping up her spine—had something taken him?
She suddenly remembered the dream—or had it been a dream?—that had plagued her sleep. The inky black mist curling through the hallways, seeping under her door and cooling her skin beneath the warmth of her blankets. Deep in her heart, she felt it had come with purpose. That it had taken something.
Her heart pounded as she forced herself up the stairs and pushed open Cillian’s door.
The room was eerily silent, and a deep, penetrating cold washed over her when she stepped inside.
A suffocating wrongness clung to the walls, the air charged with something unseen but palpable, pressing against her skin like the static before a lightning strike.
Cillian’s desk was in disarray, books and papers strewn across the floor as if he’d been frantically searching for something.
Loose pages covered every surface—each one filled with his handwriting.
Symbols. Drawn over and over again. Some hastily scratched out, others circled in dark, heavy strokes.
Evelyne’s stomach turned as she picked one up, running her fingers over the grooves where the ink had bitten deep into the page.
She could feel his desperation in every mark—an obsession that must have consumed him.
It was as though these symbols had haunted him, demanding to be remembered.
Perhaps he’d drawn them endlessly so he wouldn’t forget.
Or perhaps, by tracing them again and again, he’d hoped to understand what they meant.
Whatever truth Cillian had been chasing, Evelyne feared it had already unraveled him.
She turned and forced herself to move, pushing open the door to his bathing chamber.
Everything remained undisturbed: towels neatly folded, his night robe draped over the chair as always.
But the familiarity only made her dread grow.
Swallowing her panic, she grabbed two books from his desk and hurried downstairs.
In the drawing room, she found her parents, the scent of tea and burning wood lingering in the air. The calm, everyday scene only fueled her frustration.
“He’s gone,” Evelyne said, her voice slicing through the quiet.
Her mother barely glanced up. “Who?”
“Cillian,” she snapped. “No one has seen him since last night.”
Her father placed his cup down, his expression firm, while her mother sighed and shook her head. “Evelyne, you’re overreacting.”
A quick, incredulous laugh burst from her. “Overreacting? He would never leave without telling someone, without saying goodbye to Aurelia! You know that.” Her heart thundered in her chest. She took a step forward, gripping the books tighter. “Something is wrong!”
She paused and let out an exasperated breath.
“I saw him last night in the library. He wasn’t himself.
His eyes weren’t gold, Mother. They were black.
And he was… He was different. Angry.” She swallowed hard, the memory clawing at her mind.
“And last night, I swear I saw something, felt something. It was cold and dark. I thought I was dreaming, but—”
Her mother only shook her head again, dismissive, unconcerned. “Have you asked his handmaid?”
“Yes. Sonya does not know where he is.”
She looked at her father, but he was silent. Too silent. His jaw had tightened, and his eyes flickered with something she couldn’t name. He was thinking.
“You know something,” she accused.
Her father exhaled sharply but said nothing.
Evelyne stepped closer. “What do you know?”
“Evelyne—” her mother began, but she cut her off, her voice sharp and frantic.
“What do you know?”
A heavy silence fell over the room before her father finally spoke.
“This may be related to Velenshire.”
At that, her mother stiffened and turned to gape at her husband. Her lips pressed into a thin line.
Evelyne looked between them. “What is happening in Velenshire?”
“Darkness,” her father said firmly.
Her mother inhaled and added, “Dark magic.”
Evelyne felt the ground shift beneath her, as though reality had warped instantly.
Magic belonged to myths and fairytales—whispers meant for children, not something tangible or real.
It couldn’t be. A disbelieving laugh nearly escaped her lips at the absurdity of their words, but the weight in their expressions, the unwavering certainty in their eyes, stole the breath from her lungs.
They weren’t joking. They weren’t mistaken. They believed what they were saying, which terrified her more than anything.
Her father continued. “I’ve been trying to gather information quietly. Trade routes have gone dark. Spies we’ve sent into the area do not return. And if they do, they can’t remember what they saw.” He hesitated. “Gaviel Stonebridge is sending Alaric to investigate.”
Evelyne flinched at the name, disgust and worry warring within her. She wanted to hate him for what he had done, but the thought of him being sent into something dangerous made her chest tighten.
“Why him?” she demanded.
“If men aren’t returning, why send Alaric?”
“Because we need answers, Evelyne. And Alaric has a way of getting them.”
Evelyne clenched her jaw, but her thoughts spun back to her brother. To the pages of symbols, to his disappearance.
“I fear dark magic is somehow connected to this,” Aron said, turning to Celeste. “To Cillian.”
“I’m going to find him,” Evelyne said.
“No, you are not,” her father snapped. “I will send men out to search.”
She turned on him. “I am done being kept blind to the truth. You lied to me—both of you.” Her voice trembled with anger as she pointed to her mother. “You will not tell me what I can or cannot do. I will find my brother.”
Her father rose and stepped forward, his face grave. “Evelyne, we have no idea what dangers are out there.”
“And what are you going to do about your son?” She grabbed a handful of Cillian’s sketches, shoving them toward him. “Look at his room! He wasn’t sick. He was hiding, struggling! And all this time, you suspected it might be magic, yet you stayed silent and let him believe he was broken.”
“I didn't know it was—”
A voice cut through the tension. “My lord.”
Their most seasoned and steadfast guard, Marcel, stood at attention, composed but edged with unease. He inclined his head respectfully to her father, then her mother, and finally to Evelyne.
“One of the younger guards noticed the glass foyer doors leading to the stone patio were open this morning,” he reported. “At first, he assumed the storm had blown them wide during the night. But after learning Lord Cillian never returned to his chambers, he returned to look closer.”
He hesitated, his gaze shifting between them before settling on Lord Duskwood. Evelyne barely breathed as she waited for him to continue.
“There are footprints in the mud,” Marcel finally said, his voice low. “Bare footprints leading into the trees.”
The words hit like a physical blow.
Barefoot. He was out there alone and barefoot. The storm must have masked his departure, if it had been his choice to leave.
“My lord, there is more. Before the path meets the trees, near the great standing stones, we found… something.”
Lord Duskwood narrowed his eyes. “Go on.”
Marcel drew in a steady breath. “It’s a sigil, carved into the largest stone—seared into its surface as if by some ancient… magic.”
For the first time, a brief change crossed Lord Duskwood’s face. His command was firm. “Gather the guards. Start searching immediately. Keep the estate under watch, and the moment anyone sees him, report to me.”
Evelyne’s hands trembled as she clutched the papers and books tighter against her chest, their weight pressing into her ribs. A sigil of ancient magic? How could they possibly know of such a thing? Questions swirled in her mind, but she couldn’t afford to linger. She wouldn’t.
“Take me,” she commanded, striding toward Marcel. “I will see it now.”
She ignored her parents’ disapproval of her bold defiance. Determined to unravel the mystery, she decided that no more time would be wasted. She would find Cillian, even if it meant venturing into the darkness herself.