Chapter 23 #2
She reached for the book of sacred signs and began scanning the pages for something, anything. Weariness dragged at her mind, her vision beginning to dim. And then, at the edge of her awareness, she spotted it. The symbol behind her family’s manor.
Her fingers hesitated above the serpentine etchings and angular markings, wary of disturbing the ominous design. She traced the ink lightly, half expecting the page to thrum with the same unnatural energy as the sigil burned into the stone. But nothing stirred.
Still, her pulse hammered in her chest as her focus settled on the title beneath the sigil.
The Sigil of the Lost
The lost must remain lost. Seek them, and the darkness will claim you as well.
This sigil is no mere warning. It is a curse woven from shadow and bound by blood. It cannot be undone or unraveled by fate. To unseal it is to summon the will of its master.
Those who bear this mark are claimed, bound in servitude, their flesh branded with its power. It darkens with their corruption and burns with their defiance. To resist is to suffer.
This is the work of blood magic, wielded by one who does not warn, but takes. What is claimed cannot be returned.
Beware the sigil. It does not herald death but something far worse: eternal enslavement.
Her father was right. It was a warning.
The lost must remain lost.
No. She would find him. She would free him.
With a sharp breath, she snapped the book shut, the sound cutting through the silence. This time, when sleep pulled at her, she let it take her.
***
A cool draft seeped through the room, curling around Alaric’s skin like an unwelcome hand.
He stirred, shifting beneath the thick wool blankets, but the unnatural chill persisted.
A deep exhale left his lips, fogging slightly in the air.
That wasn’t right. His brow furrowed as he blinked awake, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His instincts stirred uneasily.
The floor was freezing beneath him, a shock against his feet as he stood. Alaric looked toward the window, expecting to find it open, but it was shut tight. No cracks. No gaps. Where was the cold coming from?
A flicker of golden light caught his attention from the nightstand, and his pulse began to quicken. The map.
Alaric lunged for it, quickly unrolling the parchment and spreading it across the bed. The outpost’s location glowed gold, marking where they were. But that wasn’t what made his stomach drop. Dark ink bled across the map, spreading like a stain, swallowing the land around them.
Something was here. Something had returned.
His body went rigid as urgency took hold. He yanked on his pants, lacing them up in a rush. Boots followed, pulled on with practiced speed. He grabbed his shirt from the edge of the bed but didn’t bother putting it on. There was no time. He had to find Evelyne, now.
He stormed out of his room and pounded on her door.
No answer.
“Evelyne,” he said frantically.
Then the door creaked open, revealing her standing in the dimness, hair unbound, skin bathed in soft light, the delicate fabric of her nightgown skimming over her toned thighs and barely concealing the swell of her chest.
His breath stilled, warmth creeping along his neck, but the thought slipped past him. He swallowed and snapped his gaze up to meet hers.
“Get dressed,” he ordered. “Something isn’t right.”
They were outside the lodge within minutes, Evelyne struggling to keep pace with Alaric’s near-frantic strides. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, only that the map felt alive in his hands, its ink pulsing like a beating heart and spreading deeper into the outpost with every passing second.
The darkness on the map shifted. Alaric’s grip tightened as he reached for Evelyne’s arm, pulling her close. “I don’t know what we’re walking into, or who’s behind it… but if anything goes wrong, you run.”
The fear in her eyes was immediate, but she pressed her bag tighter against her side and nodded.
The night air felt different. No sound came from the lodge, not even a stir from the horses.
The quiet began to press in. Their footsteps crunched against the gravel as they moved toward the stables, each sound too loud in the heavy silence.
Alaric needed to check with Reuben, though he was likely asleep in the carriage.
Stepping carefully, he unlatched the door, mindful not to startle the horses. But as it creaked open, he stopped cold.
Reuben was awake, sitting still and staring.
His expression was blank, detached, as if his mind were elsewhere.
His head tilted at an almost predatory angle as his dark eyes fixed on Alaric with an unsettling stillness.
Then, he blinked. For a brief moment, his irises weren’t their usual color; they were black.
Not the kind cast by shadows, but deep, unnatural darkness, like something sinister was staring back.
Reuben exhaled, rubbing his face as if shaking off a trance. His features settled back to normal.
“Mr. Stonebridge?” he asked, his voice groggy. “Is everything all right?”
Alaric unrolled the map, his gut tightening as the ink began to recede, drawing back toward the forest. He told himself he was fine, but he wasn’t sure he believed it.
“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “I just wanted to check in. Did you hear anything tonight? Anything unusual?”
Reuben frowned, rubbing the back of his neck. “No, sir. Nothing. Did something happen?”
Alaric shifted his gaze to Evelyne, who still stood beside him, shivering; whether from the cold or something else, he couldn’t tell. At least the unnerving presence that had seeped into his room was gone now, but the thought of it still lingered.
“I want to leave at sunrise,” Alaric said steadily. “We eat first. Then we go.”
Evelyne stepped closer. “I don’t need to eat. If you feel we should leave now, let’s go.”
Alaric shook his head. “We need our energy. Especially since we still have no idea what we’re up against.”
By morning, the eerie quiet had lifted, replaced by the mundane clatter of bowls and spoons as they filled their stomachs with grainy oats and weak tea.
The meal was nothing special, but it kept them moving.
And then, with the first light of dawn stretching over the treetops, they were off into Mokkvyrn Forest.