Chapter Fifty-Eight
T he man wears a regal black tunic and pants trimmed in rich gold stitching.
On his black head of hair—a black deeper and more depth-less than any lump of coal or mountain of anthracite—rests a crown woven from raven feathers. At its center, resting between his impossibly black brows, is a large, luminous stone the color of honey or aged amber. It matches his eyes.
It reminds me of the way King Alastair made me wear an amethyst jewel between my own eyes, always saying it pleased him to see the two paired together.
The rising moon casts a faint silver shadow on his already gray-tinted skin, and as he turns his gaze—finding me in the sea of battle effortlessly—I realize he is…is…
Equal parts beautiful and terrifying.
A person shouldn’t look so angelic while looking so full of demons.
And when he speaks, his voice is silk.
“Fight, my brothers and sisters. Fight.” The words carry on the wind, as if he commands its very laws and movements.
At once, the Abdites rise, and like suffocated embers breathing oxygen again, they resurge and catch aflame, attacking with newfound vigor.
An uneasiness fills my chest, something telling me to run.
But there is also something telling me I should stay. A giddy pull in my veins that squeals eagerly, as if sensing a reunion on the horizon.
I don’t understand the sensation at all.
Within a blink—no, faster than a blink—the man leaves his place on the battlefield behind and appears right in front of me, standing only a few paces away.
Being this close to him, I can make out the details of his eyes, and…
By the Mother, I have never seen eyes like his before.
They are bright and radiant, glowing softly like they possess some secret source of light. They appear gilded; the golden hues glittering like the incarnate of living stars. Against the contrast of his pale-gray skin, they burn with a hypnotic quality, beckoning me to look deeper.
In a way, he feels oddly familiar. Like I know him, and he knows me. But that’s impossible because I’ve never seen him before.
The man tilts his head and smiles at me. The gesture is twisted, sincere, haunting, and beautiful—
Which makes it the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen.
“Hello,” he says. His low voice is filled with age and youth simultaneously—a feat I also don’t understand at all.
I arch a brow, gripping my dagger and assuming my fighting stance.
He frowns, lifting a steady hand. “There’s no need for that. I’m not here to hurt you.”
I squeeze the hilt of my dagger, still not entirely sure how to use the weapon skillfully. But I am fully familiar with the concept of stabbing—and bluffing. “Then what are you here for, exactly?”
His frown deepens. “I told you,” he begins, his voice soft and calm. “If you didn’t come to me, I would come to you.”
It takes a minute before the realization slams into me like a forceful blow.
I know his voice—have heard it before.
He is the voice from the Veil. The one the Abdites call Master .
So many thoughts spill through my overflowing mind, tumbling down my head and rolling to my tongue, begging to be released.
I focus on the most pressing question first. “What the hell do you want with me? ”
“To show you how magnificent you are.”
My breath evaporates in my throat. I shake my head. “You don’t even know me,” I grit out.
“Oh,” he coos hypnotically. “But I do. You are Lyra Izacalli, daughter to Railiana Izacalli, a Gardner who was in service to King Alastair until she met a brutal, unjust end. You have been blood-sworn to King Alastair ever since, serving in his court as a night attendant.” He draws back half of his inky locks, gliding his hands along his head, smoothing out the hair as if preparing for something.
“You made a blood wager with your king on your ability to be accepted into this academy in an attempt to regain your freedom—to regain control of your life. And then, in a remarkable twist of fate, you were given a journal and learned within those veins of yours, an old, powerful magic lurks.” A small curve tugs at the corner of his mouth. “How’d I do?”
My heart pounds in my chest, and my breathing grows shallow—erratic. “How could you possibly know all that?”
“I keep close tabs on those I care about.”
I recede a step, fear prickling at my neck as warning bells ring inside me. “And why would you care about me?”
“Because you and I are the same. Perhaps the only ones who could ever truly understand each other. A true gift in this world, I’ve come to learn.”
I take another retreating step, shaking my head. “You say we are the same, yet I don’t even know who you are.”
He tilts his head. “Don’t you?”
My lungs stutter. “Who even are you?” The trembling question comes out breathy, fear outlining its seams.
Not because I fear the answer, but because I’m terrified I already know it.
The pieces fall together too perfectly to be anything but the truth, no matter how impossible—how utterly unbelievable—it may seem.
His tilted head cocks further, his beautiful smile growing. “Based on the way you’re looking at me, I think you’ve already figured out the answer to your question. ”
I fight against the quiver threatening to rattle my words. “No, see, I can’t be right. Because the person I’m thinking of has been dead for over four hundred years”
His smile sharpens. “Stranger things have happened in this world of magic.”
“No,” I counter. “Not stranger than something like that.”
He hums, as if amused.
Fear, uncertainty, confusion—so many different feelings crawl up my throat and sink their teeth into me. “Tell me who you are. Tell me your name .”
“Very well,” he coos. His eyes brighten, crinkling with the fully-formed smile now splitting his lips. He inclines his head to me. “My name is Casimir Vivaldri, and I am here to take you back with me—to bring you home.”
A chill twirls down my spine as the words slam into me, fuzzy and nonsensical. My mind reels as it tries to make sense of this… impossibility.
Because Casimir Vivaldri is dead.
Casimir Vivaldri lived over four hundred years ago.
I shouldn’t believe a single word falling from this stranger’s mouth because what he claims cannot possibly be true— shouldn’t be true.
Yet something deep in my bones tells me it is.
Or if nothing else, the way my magic hums for him—as if begging to be released to connect to him—forces me to believe it.
Casimir Vivaldri watches me quietly, his eyes oddly gentle, as if letting me process the revelation in peace.
Which makes me realize how peaceful this conversation has been. As if the roar of battle has been suddenly snuffed out like a dying flame from a wick.
Did he use his magic to do that?
The magic he and I share…
Everything suddenly tilts as my world falls off-kilter. “This should be impossible,” I whisper.
“Impossible is a human word, and human words have no meaning when it comes to the dealings of the gods. ”
The words sound familiar…
Where have I heard them before?
I shake the question away, deciding I can’t take my focus off Casimir—not even for a second.
“Was that really your journal?”
He nods. “It was.”
“And was it true? Your account of history, the things you said, the…” I swallow against the dryness overtaking my throat. “The prophecy.”
“Every word written, everything I said—it was all true, down to the barest sentence.”
My chest tightens while my heart flounders in my chest, feeling unable to keep up.
“But what you said in your final journal entry about humanity…” I shake my head, both terror and sorrow crawling up my throat. “About the things you’ve done. The things you feel…”
Casimir Vivaldri dips his chin. “All true. Remain true, even now.”
I again shake my head, trying to understand. “But you once had such faith in the world. Advocated for diplomacy and peace. What—what changed?” For some reason, I feel like I need him to explain it to me so I can make sense of it.
“The world.” He pauses, considering. “Or perhaps it’s better to say my perception of it.”
“What about Sitara?” I murmur.
He stiffens. “What about Sitara?” His voice is clipped—different.
“She was your friend,” I murmur. “She was someone you loved, and you—you did such wrong by her.” I think of the story of Astralis and Sitara. Think of his final journal entry.
We are not creatures of devotion, but of desperation. We know not how to love, but how to survive. We break. We rebuild. We break again. And if that is the root of humanity, tell me—
What is there worth saving?
My lip curls, and I take another retreating step. “After all I know, what makes you think I would ever willingly go with you?”
Casimir Vivaldri frowns. “ Am I so wrong in my thinking?”
“ Yes .”
“Why?”
“Because… because…” I press my palm to my forehead, my nerves stretched taut.
“Just because someone doesn’t love you doesn’t mean you have the right to sabotage their love for another.
Just because you do not agree with humanity’s choices does not make you its savior.
Yes, we are flawed. But we are also resilient, capable of great good.
And no one—no single person—should ever believe they have the right to choose for humanity. ”
“And if someone claims they do?”
“Then I would say that person is more a threat to this world than any evil they claim to fight against.”
Casimir heaves a drawn out sigh, gliding a hand through his hair. “What is good but love that was returned? What is evil but love that went unanswered? And what is humanity, if not the ghosts of the love we could never hold?”
Unease pools in my stomach. “What are you even saying?”
“That the root of humanity stems from the ceaseless search to be wanted—to be loved. We burn for it. We break for it. We tear ourselves open, carve ourselves hollow, and still, we reach. Still, we beg.” He pauses. “Still, we hope. It’s a terribly cruel fate.”