Chapter 52 #2
The moment their skin touched, Rain focused his power; pushing past her surface emotions, searching for the truth beneath.
Wren doubled down instantly.
Her thoughts slammed into a single repeated phrase, over and over like a shield:
I need to go home. I need to go home. I need to go home.
But her pulse betrayed her; hammering against his fingers, frantic and uneven. Her anxiety gnawed at her like acid, eating away at her composure.
Rain softened his voice, letting sincerity seep into every word.
“I believe I owe you an apology.”
Her brow creased; confusion cracking her mask.
Her guard slipped; just a fraction.
And in that tiny opening, Rain heard it.
Does he know I’m talking?
Then the phrase returned, rigid and forced.
I need to go home. I need to go home.
Rain’s stomach twisted.
“For how things went between me and Jay,” he continued gently. “I know you’ve done your best to look out for him. And I know there are things I should have done differently. Hindsight is a wonderful thing.”
He paused; letting the silence stretch, letting her feel the weight of his sincerity.
“I’m thankful he had you by his side while I failed to be there. I’m sorry for putting you both through that. I value your friendship—both of you. And I know that by associating with me, you sacrifice a lot.”
He looked down at his hand on her arm. Her hand hung limp, her body stiff with discomfort. He released her slowly, watching her arm fall back to her side.
He smiled again; warm, harmless, perfectly composed.
“Hey, maybe after we win the tournament, I can bring you to meet the girls. We stay close by. I’m sure after five weeks, they’ll be better adjusted.”
And just like that, he planted the seed.
It hurt.
Gods, it hurt.
To even consider that Wren; fierce, loyal, stubborn Wren, might be acting as an informant. But he couldn’t ignore the signs anymore. Her behaviour mirrored the Red army’s techniques too closely. The emotional masking. The rehearsed questions. The sudden distance. The fear.
And the flicker of excitement in her eyes—the one she tried to bury—confirmed what he didn’t want to believe.
But he refused to accept it fully.
Not yet.
Not until he had proof.
“That would be great!” Wren chirped, her smile too bright, too stiff. She turned to Jay. “Come on, let’s go home.”
Jay sighed, oblivious, and leaned in to steal a goodbye hug from Rain before jogging after her.
“See you tomorrow!” he called over his shoulder.
Rain watched them go, his chest tight with a mix of dread and heartbreak.
After the rest of the team dispersed, Rain lingered. He needed to train; needed to burn off the tension coiled inside him. He missed Raymon’s early morning sessions more than he’d ever admit. Missed the grounding. Missed the clarity. Missed the friend he wasn’t sure he could trust anymore.
When he finally finished, sweat cooling on his skin, Rain made his way toward the boarded-up bookshop.
If answers existed anywhere; they would be here.
He waited until the street was clear, blending into the shadows as he approached the abandoned storefront.
The boarded windows loomed like blind eyes, the peeling paint catching faint glimmers of afternoon light.
Rain moved with the quiet confidence of someone who had broken into far more dangerous places than this.
His hand wrapped around the cold brass handle; the metal biting against his warm skin, while his other hovered just above the lock.
He channelled his power into the mechanism, feeling the tumblers shift beneath his influence, the old metal surrendering to him with a soft, obedient click.
The lock gave way.
The old bell above the door chimed as he stepped inside; a brittle, delicate sound that echoed through the stillness like a memory. It chimed again as the door closed behind him, the second ring somehow lonelier than the first.
The shop was exactly as he’d left it.
But the air felt different.
Stagnant.
Paused.
As though the entire space had been holding its breath, waiting for him to return.
Dust motes drifted lazily through the slanted beams of light filtering in from the cracks in the boarded windows.
Shelves sagged beneath the weight of forgotten tomes, their spines faded and curling.
The faint scent of old paper and wood polish clung to the air—familiar, comforting—but beneath it lurked something else.
Magic prickled at his senses; sharp, electric, irresistible. It thrummed through the room like a heartbeat, vibrating faintly against his skin. His blood reacted instantly, humming with recognition, urging him forward with a pull that felt both ancient and intimate.
He froze.
Instinct took over.
He tilted his head, scanning the room like a predator listening for prey. Every muscle tensed, his breath shallow as he strained to detect even the slightest disturbance. He listened for breath, for movement, for the subtle shift of weight on floorboards.
Nothing.
He inhaled deeply; dust, old paper, wood polish and then something else.
A stench.
Rot.
Decay.
Death.
It hit him like a physical blow.
He coughed, recoiling as the rancid smell clawed at his lungs. It was thick and sour, the unmistakable scent of a body long past saving. He knew that smell too well from battlefields, the scent of fallen soldiers and the aftermath of violence. It was a scent that clung to memory like tar.
Only when he was certain he was alone did he move deeper into the shop, each step measured, silent, deliberate. His boots whispered across the worn floorboards as he rounded the oak counter, slipping through the narrow doorway that led into the back hall.
The corridor was dim, the air heavier here, as though the walls themselves were saturated with the lingering presence of magic.
The staircase loomed ahead, steep and narrow, the wood creaking softly under his weight as he ascended.
He took the steps two at a time, drawn by the pulsing magic above; a steady thrum that resonated through the floorboards and into his bones.
At the top, he entered a small bedroom.
The contrast was jarring.
Pastel blue walls, soft and gentle, wrapped the room in a quaint, almost childlike serenity.
Delicate white flowers were painted across them; blooms Rain recognised instantly as the same kind that flourished throughout the palace gardens.
A twin bed sat neatly in the centre of the room, dressed in lace drapes and a matching bedspread, the kind of setup meant for peaceful dreams and quiet mornings.
But the serenity was suffocated by the stench of death.
The sweetness of the painted flowers clashed violently with the sour rot in the air, creating a nauseating dissonance. The room felt wrong; like innocence had been invaded, corrupted, swallowed whole by something ancient and foul.
Rain swallowed hard, forcing himself to ignore the bile rising in his throat.
His gaze snapped to the corner.
A wooden crate sat with its lid pried open, the edges splintered as though someone had forced it apart in desperation.
A soft purple glow spilled out from within, casting shifting, ethereal patterns across the pale blue walls.
The light pulsed gently, like a heartbeat, illuminating the lace drapes in ghostly hues.
The magical current radiating from the crate was strong—ancient, irresistible—and it tugged at Rain with a force that felt almost sentient.
Rain’s breath caught.
Whatever was inside that crate…
It was calling to him.
Resisting the internal compulsion to rush toward the source, Rain moved with caution, making his way around the bed, his senses on high alert.
Every step felt deliberately measured; the floorboards creaked softly beneath his boots, the air thick with the cloying scent of dust and something far more sinister.
His skin prickled with the electric hum of magic, the kind that crawled beneath the surface of his flesh like static.
As he drew closer, he suddenly stopped short, his heart jolting in his chest.
Though he had expected to stumble upon a body, the sight at the base of the open crate rooted him to the spot; a figure lay slumped, lifeless, mottled and distended, its presence a stark and chilling contrast to the otherwise peaceful setting.
The corpse’s limbs were stiffened at odd angles, the skin stretched taut and discoloured, bloated in places where decay had begun to take hold.
The face—or what remained of it—was sunken and waxy, the lips pulled back slightly as though frozen mid-gasp.
The grotesque stillness of it made the delicate lace curtains and pastel walls feel like a cruel joke.
Bile rose up Rain’s throat as the sight and stench bound together into reality.
The rancid odour—thick, sour, unmistakably death—clawed at his senses, coating the back of his tongue.
He swallowed, burying his mouth and nose into the crook of his arm as he inched closer to the crate.
His eyes watered from the intensity of the smell, but he forced himself forward, careful not to let his boots brush the corpse.
Every instinct screamed at him to recoil, but curiosity and something deeper, something ancient, pulled him onward.