Chapter 12 Journal
Journal
Lucian
T
he journal Aralia found sits heavy in my hands. I drop it on the bed as though it might burn me, staring at the leather as if answers will bleed through if I look long enough. Yet, I can’t bring myself to open it.
If I uncover something worse—proof that the Arcane were here, commanding the creatures that killed Azaire while I remained blind—then the fault shifts.
I already know they used the monsters to breach the academy’s defenses.
But to see it in ink, undeniable, that someone I knew had a hand in it…
That would place more fault in my hands than I can carry.
There may be truths about Icarthus, about the purpose for which I was shaped by him. I could turn away from it all, yet my ignorance would only serve them. If the Arcanes intended me for something, I will know it. And in knowing it, I will ensure it never comes to fruition.
I have a journal that belongs to one of them. Before I can second-guess myself, I open it.
These people disgust me. The rotting berries on the ground, the jewels on their knives, the convoluted sentences.
“My apologies” instead of “I’m sorry.” It’s supposed to be diplomatic, but it’s just insincere.
They know their rotting berries and bejeweled weapons could feed a family like Damien’s for years, but they do nothing.
They talk about how dumb we are, just because we were born in the septic.
Then Mr. Bayley asks me to come up with a new way to manipulate my neighbors and expects me to not act disgusted when these assholes suggest we whip the children.
Whip them like I was whipped. For their hunger, their thirst, their desperation.
Punish the innocent for surviving. Gods, I want to watch this place burn.
The septic? The Arcanes were shunned to The Void a thousand years ago. I can’t trust any of the information, yet I read on.
Lucian got me to start a fire today. Then I heard the whispering, and he was telling me to “keep my wits about me.” I thought of Mom.
She’d say the same. I wish it was anyone other than Lucian helping me.
When I think about the prince of Ilyria knowing anything about me, my skin crawls.
I see myself dead by his hands before the end of this.
We knew one another, then. I think of what Yuki said, the thing missing from my mind exponentially. We worked together. I tell myself that continuing to read is a strategy—yet I can’t deny I enjoy the indulgence.
I killed five people last night. In a dream, of course. But these dreams feel as real as being awake.
I consume every page, drinking in every line, searching for context between the words. The sun sets outside my window, and I read on—as if I’m drowning, and these words are the distant shore.
Just like that, I know I can’t burn it.
Every word in this journal is unmistakably human. Each turn, every thought, makes sense. She makes sense. I don’t know her, yet I feel as if I’ve known her forever. If I’m not careful, I’ll want to know all of her.
I, too, grew up in a castle, knowing I was the only one there who didn’t belong.
It was sheer will that kept my heart beating, just as it did hers.
She hid for months, concealing her Arcane nature and her roots in the septic.
If anyone here discovered either, they’d have hunted her down without a second thought.
Yet, here I am, drawn to her like a moth to a flame, in the deadliest of ways. The moment I touch her, the moment I see her, I have to be the one to kill her. I cannot be wrapped up in words—words that are fake, surely planted.
I should use this. Twist it into leverage. Turn her mind into a weapon against her. Though something tells me to protect it. Guard it, the way she guarded herself.
Reaching for a bottle of vesi, I chug, hoping to drown my racing thoughts.
The more I read, the deeper I fall into her world.
Each word and emotion pulls me closer to her essence.
After reading each sentence three times over, I tuck the journal into the darkest corner of my closet, promising myself I won’t read it again.
For if she is true, I’ve failed. If she’s false, it’s a trap.
The person who wrote this is either my kindred spirit or my enemy. She knows how to ensnare me—how to pull me under. I won’t fall for it, not willingly.
Approaching Yuki’s room, I knock on the door, wishing it was Azaire I was looking for.
“What’s up?” my advisor asks.
“I need a distraction,” I mutter, tapping the bottle against the frame. “Something other than alcohol.”
?
There are fifteen people in the woods. At the center of the crowd, surrounded by towering trees, a mat waits—similar to the ones in the combat room.
A fight is Yuki’s distraction for me. Repeated punches to the face should make everything else seem irrelevant.
Perhaps I do need someone to knock some sense into me.
Or, preferably, to break my knuckles against someone else’s jaw.
Yuki subtly points at the largest guy in our class, smirking at me. “Fifty pence, you can’t beat Alec.”
I probably can’t. He’s massive, easily the strongest Folk in the academy. What better remedy is there for an overactive mind?
With a smirk, I call Alec’s name.
“Make your bets now, boys!” Yuki exclaims to the small crowd as he walks across the mat.
Alec steps toward me, cracking his knuckles. “You wanna fight me, pretty boy?”
“Careful,” I reply evenly. “I am your prince.”
He smirks, letting out a fake laugh. “You’re gonna learn what we think about you,” he spits on the floor, “when we don’t have to spare your ego.”
He swings at my jaw.
We begin then.
Yuki shouts something I can’t hear over the ringing in my ears. I throw a punch at Alec’s face—he ducks. My next one lands on his torso. He grunts, swinging wide—a right hook that could easily end a lesser guy. I duck, rise, and hit his ribs again. They feel solid. The bones in my hand thrum.
His fist quickly comes back around, hitting my jaw. My head snaps sideways, my neck stiff. Pain flares white behind my eyes.
The kids behind us scream louder.
“Take him out,” one yells.
They are speaking about me. The moment I renounced the throne, whatever reverence remained was fractured. As Fleur noted—Folkara will employ half of them. The rest, seeking positions in Ilyria, will no doubt remember their manners.
I stumble back, trying hard to stay on my feet—and succeeding.
“Look at you,” Alec spits. “The prince is still standing.”
When am I not?
He stalks closer. My knuckles snap against his jaw, but Alec comes back swinging. I block all but one.
The mat is hardly soft enough to break a fall, and when my head smacks against it, I see a girl in the corner of my vision.
There wasn’t a single girl in the crowd.
I rise to my feet.
“Again!” I cry.
Alec smiles. His second punch is twice as hard. A tooth loosens at the back of my mouth. I spit blood and crash to the ground, the noise around me going quiet as my ears ring.
Then, through the screech, a laugh. There’s a flash of orange hair. Goose flesh covers my skin.
It’s the opposite of the distraction I was looking for—yet it’s what I need.
With a cough, I spit more blood.
“Again,” I choke from the mat.
His foot cracks beneath my chin, and the world leaves my view entirely. I’m in a bed—Barley’s spare, in Ilyria. My hands glide along skin, tucking hair behind her ear. Lips touch my neck. Then nothing.
Only trees wave above me, and I’m back in the woods of Visnatus, my temples pounding.
Alec stands over me, glaring. “Stay down.”
Just one glimpse, I want to say. Hit me one more time.
Was that Desdemona? Had I touched her—an Arcane? The journal must be true, all the words she wrote that I long to read again. It defies everything I know.
When Alec turns toward the crowd, holding his hands above his head in triumph, I drive my foot into the back of his knee. He crumples forward as I push up, punching him straight in the mouth.
I’ve been in my mind so long, and it’s driving me insane. Pain is simpler than thought—and I need something more real than lost memories.
Alec’s head jerks back, blood dripping from his split lip.
I continue: left hook to his ribs, right cross to the cheek, elbow to the nose.
I feel his cartilage give way. Alec grunts and swings wide.
I weave under it, let his momentum carry him past me, then turn and drive an elbow into his neck. He chokes.
I was tired of hearing his voice.
He grabs my shirt, pulls me forward, and smashes his forehead into mine. My vision fails me—everything goes white. My knees buckle beneath me as warm blood trickles into my eye, stinging.
What in the gods has he broken?
I push him off me, stumbling back with the force of my shove.
“You… look like shit,” Alec wheezes.
“Mirror,” I gasp. “Try one.”
I seize Alec and bring him to the ground, catching him off guard. His knuckles strike my ribs, and I find myself on the verge of letting him win, just to see him strike with everything he has, if only to witness those images again.
Though it’s as if my body cannot allow me to lose, perhaps my ego is quite strong.
I slam my elbow into his jaw, then straddle his chest, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and hitting his face.
My knuckles bruise against his skull, the skin splitting open, yet the pain is perfect. I nearly forget the haunting images.
I stop as his body goes limp, his face busted beneath me. His eyes flutter, blood pooling on the floor under his head.
My legs feel as though they’re made of liquid as I rise, staggering back. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and nod at Yuki. Distraction complete.
The crowd screams in response.
Yuki runs to me, grabbing my hand and holding it over our heads. A Eunoia rushes to Alec, healing him.
“We have our first winner!” my advisor shouts. Many of my classmates shout obscene things, disappointed in their winner. Quietly, Yuki asks me, “Do you have another one in you?”
I laugh. I barely had that one in me, yet the win energized me—and I’m certain Yuki brought a Eunoia here to heal me.
“Fuck yeah.”
“Edward!”
From across the woods, Edward looks up, the moonlight catching on his pale hair.
“Quite a fight,” he says as he approaches, wasting no time. His fingers wave over my face, and whatever skin Alec split in my forehead stitches itself together.
“I needed it, believe it or not.”
“You needed the shit beat out of you or to beat the shit out of someone else?” Edward glances at Alec, whose eyes are slowly opening.
“Either,” I mutter.
Edward retracts his hands, offering me a smile. “You should be good to go. For either.”
?
Later, when the brawls have ended, I lie on the bed with my hands atop my sternum. The journal pulses from the closet. I tell myself to sleep. I will not be a slave to words on paper.
My will breaks quickly.
I stay up all night, tucked in the corner, lights dim, as I read the journal. One last time.