Chapter 26
Chapter
Twenty-Six
The stairs spiraled upward, the stone steps worn smooth with age, and every creak of leather, every scrape of boot, felt like it carried far too loud in the silence. My hand grazed the cold wall as we climbed, Kaelith’s presence in the back of my mind the only tether that kept me steady.
At the top, we pushed through a set of warped wooden doors and entered a vast chamber.
It wasn’t the throne room.
I halted, staring. The place had the hushed echo of something long abandoned, an old banquet hall, maybe, though it had been years since it had seen feasting or laughter.
A long oak table ran the center of the room, cracked and bowed under its own weight, littered with cobwebs and the husks of candle stubs burned down to nothing.
Rusted sconces lined the walls, holding torches that had long gone cold, their brackets crusted in black.
Dust lay thick over everything, disturbed only by our steps.
In the corners, torn tapestries sagged on their hooks, their designs so faded I couldn’t make out what kingdoms or victories they once celebrated.
The silence here was oppressive, broken only by the drip of water from somewhere above.
We moved cautiously through the room, each of us scanning the shadows as if something might leap out.
My thoughts circled back to the illusions in the hall below and the disquieting question that gnawed at me—How much of what I’d seen before in this castle had ever been real?
Veyna. Elara. Even the corridors themselves.
Had Veralin spun his web around me long before I realized it?
“Zander,” I whispered, glancing at him. His jaw was set tight, his eyes sweeping the room with a soldier’s vigilance. “What did you see? Downstairs when the darkness came?”
He hesitated. I saw the flicker of pain across his face before he finally spoke, his voice rough. “My dead brother.”
The words sent a shiver through me. Guilt that my father had Zander’s brother assassinated.
“He told me his death was my fault. That Warriath would fall because of my weakness.” Zander’s gaze dropped, his shoulders heavy as if the memory weighed them down.
His knuckles whitened where he gripped the hilt of his sword, and for a moment he looked nothing like the man who had led us here, who bore the weight of a crown he hadn’t asked for.
He looked like a boy who had lost too much, too soon.
The shadows of the ruined hall seemed to lean in closer, as though feeding on his pain. My chest ached at the rawness in his tone, the haunted cast to his features.
Veralin knew exactly where to strike.
“I know that isn’t true,” I whispered, moving closer until my fingers brushed his arm. “It was either Theron or Inderia who went to Cyran. We can find out which, if it helps ease your mind.”
Zander’s jaw tightened, his throat working as if he swallowed down words that threatened to break him.
“It doesn’t matter which of them paid the Order.
Severeth was behind it—manipulating them.
And behind her, as always, is Veralin.” His voice hardened, steel threading through the cracks of grief.
“We are exactly where we need to be to end this.”
I studied him, the way the torchlight caught the hollows beneath his eyes, the way his hand gripped his sword like it was the only anchor keeping him from unraveling. “Then I’ll follow you anywhere.”
He didn’t answer.
So I kept speaking, though my voice betrayed me, trembling with the weight of truth.
“I know you’ll have to make hard choices as king.
I accept that. I accept the consequences of it.
” The sadness slipped through, no matter how I tried to smother it—because saying it out loud felt like letting go of pieces of us I hadn’t even held yet.
His head snapped toward me, eyes blazing. Anger flickered there—anger at me, at fate, at the gods for putting this burden on his shoulders. But before he could speak—
A guttural hiss split the silence.
Shadows tore themselves free from the corners of the banquet hall, coalescing into snarling shapes. Clawed limbs, glowing red eyes, the smell of rot curling through the air.
My sword was in my hand in an instant. “We’re not alone.”
Zander turned, his Dark Fire already coiling around his fists as the first of the wraithlike creatures lunged from the shadows.
The first wraith lunged, its body little more than a swirl of black mist shaped vaguely like a man.
Its face was a hollow void, its claws tipped with jagged shards of ice.
The others followed in a rush, pouring from the corners and rafters of the defunct banquet hall like living smoke.
Their shrieks were shrill enough to rattle my bones, their presence heavy enough to claw at my lungs.
I struck out with my blade, my heart racing, only to feel the steel pass clean through the creature as if it were made of fog. No resistance. No wound. The wraith twisted, screeching in delight, and its claws raked down my arm, the pain so cold it burned.
“Back!” Zander roared, Dark Fire already unfurling from his fists like a storm breaking free of chains.
We fought anyway, Ferrula’s blade flashing, Jax swinging his greatsword in an arc that should’ve cut one of the things in half, but their blades meant nothing.
Naia’s kinetic surge sparked, shoving one wraith across the hall, but it reformed instantly, whispering in a tongue that scraped at my sanity.
“Move behind me!” Zander’s voice thundered through the chamber, fierce enough to make me obey without thought.
He stepped forward, Dark Fire spilling from him in violent lashes that cracked the air like whips.
When the black flame struck the wraiths, their shrieks changed—pure agony.
Their forms convulsed, imploded, and dissolved into nothingness.
He was a wall of destruction, his magic carving through the shadow-spawn as if they were kindling in a pyre.
One lash of Dark Fire cut across three at once, searing through their insubstantial bodies.
Another bolt shot from his hand like a spear, slamming one against the stone wall until it burst into smoke.
The sight was terrifying, his Dark Fire wasn’t just fire, it was a living force, writhing around him, feeding on his fury, stretching farther than I had ever seen it go.
It coiled around his body, lashing out on its own as though it had a will beyond his control.
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe—not because of the wraiths, but because of him.
The last of Veralin’s creations lunged from the ceiling, dropping like a dagger of shadow. Zander turned, his eyes pure molten darkness, and unleashed a torrent of Dark Fire so violent it split the air with a thunderclap. The wraith shrieked once, then vanished into nothing.
Silence followed. The room smelled of scorched stone and smoke. My chest heaved, the others pressed close behind me, all of us staring at him.
Ferrula blew out a low whistle. “Well… that was humbling.”
Jax snorted and leaned on his blade, though his eyes were still wide. “That’s the first time I’ve hidden behind a king’s coattails.”
Zander’s gaze snapped to him, his jaw tight, irritation flashing in his eyes. “Only Dark Fire kills them. Nobody wins this war thinking they can do this alone. We are all better suited to certain tasks. This is just one of them.”
Jax lifted his hands in mock surrender, his grin unrepentant. “Yeah, but with the exception of Ashe, you’re way more powerful.”
Zander’s eyes flickered to me, his expression unreadable, but I could feel the tension humming off him—pride, anger, and fear all twisted together, but he continued on.
The castle swallowed us whole as we went deeper into its heart.
Our boots echoed against the cracked stones, torchlight flickering over walls that seemed to shift when we weren’t looking.
The air was heavy with damp rot, the stench of sulfur threading through every corridor.
Ancient tapestries hung in tatters, their scenes warped with heroes twisted into monsters, dragons bleeding black flame instead of gold.
Every step felt like walking through the memory of a nightmare, half-real, half a lie conjured by Veralin’s power.
No more wraiths stalked us, but their absence wasn’t a comfort.
It was worse. Empty halls stretched like veins, leading us toward something inevitable, and every flicker of shadow set the hairs on my arms on edge.
My dragon mark burned against my skin, Kaelith’s voice brushing my mind.
You feel him because he wants you to. Follow, but beware.
Illusions are his shield as much as his weapon.
I slowed, my chest tightening, and whispered, “This way.”
Zander’s dark gaze flicked to mine, questioning, but he didn’t hesitate.
He gave the order with a nod, and the others fell in behind us without a word.
I could feel it. A pull low in my chest, tugging me like an invisible tether.
My feet seemed to know the path better than I did, turning down a wide corridor, then through an arched doorway that opened into a vast chamber.
The room was cavernous, lined with stone pillars that reached into vaulted shadows. The floor was slick marble veined in crimson, glowing, as though blood had been etched into the very stone. At the far end, raised on a dais, sat Veralin.
He lounged as if he had been waiting for us, his form both too vivid and too unreal, like staring at a man painted from darkness itself.
His eyes glowed with cruel red light, and his throne, gods, it seemed alive.
It pulsed with ancient wards, veins of blood magic weaving across its surface, breathing with him.
The symbols carved into its arms glimmered, thrumming against the inside of my skull.
I froze, my breath catching as the key on its chain around my neck began to tingle—an almost electric vibration that traveled down my spine.
My eyes caught on the throne again, and something shifted.
Near Veralin’s head, carved into the black stone itself, a keyhole revealed itself.
It hadn’t been there before. It glowed, the same crimson pulse as the key pressing against my chest.
My fingers curled around the chain instinctively.
The room didn’t look as I remembered it when I had come here before.
The layout was wrong; the walls seemed newer, untouched.
No collapsed stone, no cracks in the ceiling where sunlight had once broken through.
He had cloaked everything in an illusion of perfection, as if this cursed hall were untouched by time or battle.
But the keyhole was real. Its magic called to me in a way that no trick could replicate.
Veralin leaned forward on his throne, his cruel smile curling like smoke. “Ah, Granddaughter. At last, the key finds its way home.”
The wards pulsed harder; the chain burned against my skin, and I knew, whatever that lock was, it was meant for me.