Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Iam still full of optimism as Soria helps me into the stunning gown—delicate silver embroidery shimmering like starlight against a midnight sky. My fingers ghost over the fabric, half fearing it might vanish beneath my touch.
Vale has not yet returned.
Still, I want to be ready the moment he does. I find myself restless in my chambers as the sun begins to dip low into the sky.
I pick at the plate Soria set aside for me. Rather than meet me with worry or concern, emotions I might feel responsible to soothe, she holds me with care. Real, earnest care. Her signature command threaded through each word.
“I promised him I’d look after you,” she says, not quite chastising. “I can’t have him return to find you in such a state. Eat. If not for me, then for him.”
It should have comforted, as her words so often do. Instead, it opens a hollow where he should be.
I leave soon after and walk through the halls, each step heavy, laboring as if moving against a current deep enough to drown. Knots twist and burn in my shoulders, though the worst work I’ve done since arriving has been sleeping through the night.
My feet shuffle along. Despite sleeping through the morning, the exhaustion is consuming. I would be inclined to climb back into bed, but that is the last place I want to be. He will be here any moment.
He has to be.
I make my way toward the conservatory, my own private sanctuary. I pray I can find peace there.
Heaving the doors open, I breathe it in. Air, water, earth. It’s intoxicating. For a moment I simply stand, letting it wash over me. It never feels as though nature is caged here. This is a place where I can cherish it, nurture it, and be renewed in return.
Water beads down the glass panels. The ornate tile is rough enough I will not slip, despite the ever-present damp. This is why I keep only journals and blank parchment here to sketch upon. I do not mind the pages curling with only my own scribbles across them.
I take my time entering the space, walking the perimeter.
Today was the first break in the storms—not only across the mountain but within myself. Now, as the hours pass and Vale has not returned, I feel the clouds rolling back in.
I strive to ground myself.
My fingers trace the delicate green tendrils of creeping ivy.
I observe the way the scarlet hues of sunset paint warmth across the room.
I smile through pain and exhaustion—a smile that cracks as the glow fades into night.
Lanterns are already lit, casting shadows and light in equal measure.
I hear the first tings of scattered rain as I try to find my center.
I move without purpose, lost as the rain falls more steadily now.
My reflection faces me in the foggy glass as I reach the far end of the space. A single drop trails down the inner pane, splitting the image in two. Something in me shifts.
I cannot abide the broken self staring back at me. I brush my hand against the cold glass, smearing the image with it.
I barely register I’ve begun pacing.
He’s still not here.
The words stoke the fire within. He should be here. He knows how important this night is to me. He promised.
I’m not angry with him. It’s whatever cruel twist of fate has kept him from me: storms, destiny… I do not care.
I felt such peace before he left. Even once he was gone, I pushed myself to belong—to claim each day as my own. To be the flame he cherishes and desires.
The call that has been so unrelenting in his absence was almost bearable when his arms were around me. But now—now every part of me rails against it.
Anger begins to fill my chest.
Through it all I steeled myself. I stood tall. I stepped forward. Only to have dark clouds and anguished nights try to stifle me.
And that call—that damn call that no one else seems to hear. The one reaching for and snarling only at me.
My hands curl into fists.
I spin on the spot amid the lush garden that surrounds me, nostrils flaring. Furious. I decide it. I am furious.
I feel the rush course through my veins, heat pulsing beneath my skin. I shove open the doors, abandoning the usual comfort of the conservatory. My steps grow sharp and purposeful upon stone, each strike echoing like a battle cry meant only for me—and for it.
The Sanctum.
The call.
I will not let it be my undoing.
My mind locks onto all it dares to take from me—the pain that tears through me, the pit in my stomach, the fog clouding my thoughts until I cannot think.
All for what? A call I cannot answer?
The guard stationed across from the library shifts backward—perhaps knowing well enough to keep his distance.
In hindsight, I realize the path here has been remarkably clear.
Surely others must be awake, even at this late hour—yet nothing has deterred me.
The storm presses harder against the stone, as if driving the castle inward.
My focus drove me here without a single nod or glance.
The library is still as I enter—none of the quiet comfort I find here with Ace. This is a reckoning.
The towering stacks keep silent watch as I move with purpose. I stand before the Sanctum as though waiting for it to strike. Nothing. Just the blackened abyss before me.
My fingers wrap around the bars, heat blooming beneath my palms where cool iron should meet them. I tighten my grip as pain pierces into my skin; it brings more comfort than the silence.
Agony and ire twist within me, my knees unsteadied. How can something draw me so near and remain so far?
Each breath cuts deeper, hotter in my lungs. The nagging pain in my shoulders burns now as they draw back, every muscle tense and coiled.
Raw power seethes beneath my skin as I stare into darkness.
“What do you want from me?” I cry out. Far louder than one ought in such a place. I am beyond decorum. I shake the door, the chain clattering.
I am the ghost that haunts this space. I am the specter rattling the chains.
“Why do you call to me?” I feel the crack deep in my core.
Fury is an inferno, but the hotter it burns, the faster it dies.
So too does the blaze that threatens to consume me.
My arms weaken, though my grip does not.
Only a faint stir of air answers—my own voice echoing back at me.
I sink to the floor, hands slipping to my sides. My head falls into my palms.
Lightning crashes outside. Thunder shakes the stone. The storm returns with new ferocity.
I force myself upright, hands clutching the bars as I pull myself to standing. This storm, this call, it may seek to ruin me, but I will not remain broken. I set my hand atop the lock, neither in surrender nor defeat. More an acceptance.
The storm may rage, but I will rise. I will always rise.
The lock falls.
Completely released. Hanging slack against the chains. I have no words. I cannot even gather a thought. I lift the lock, free the gate, and set it aside. I coax the flame from one of the sconces into a nearby lantern. Stillness holds me, despite the tumult outside, as I slowly open the door.
Lantern held before me, I step with caution. I shouldn’t be here, the tightness in my chest screams it, but the warm gust lures me deeper. The smell of decaying pages and musty air feels both full of warning and welcome.
I descend.
The thunder grows distant, though I know the storm hasn’t let up. I set the lantern aside; it illuminates a gilded tome before me. A prophecy, waiting.
Not only here, on the pedestal, but everywhere. Ancient texts line every shelf. How many have come true? How many wait unfulfilled?
I’m drawn in.
Tableaus, rubbings, scrolls, bound volumes. Artifacts scattered around them. An ancient brass orb etched with intricate designs, jars covered in dust.
And at the back of the room—a dagger.
Its jagged, dulled blade calls me closer. I lean in to look, lightning crackling so near that even here I see its flash along the metal. My hand lifts without my bidding. A sharp prick along my fingertip.
I recoil, scarlet welling.
I step back and bump the pedestal. Startled, my hands land on the open pages.
“No, no, no—” I see it—a smear of red. A small but terrible mark across something sacred. I whirl, wiping at it with my thumb—but it has already soaked into the page. “Dammit.”
A low vibration thrums through my fingertips, up my arm. The air shifts—not a breeze—a pull. The lantern flame quivers. Something stirs—not around me.
In me.
Heat blooms beneath my skin—a molten thread winding up into my shoulder, settling beneath my collarbone. The same place the ache has lived for nights on end. The hum deepens.
A heartbeat—not my own.
Scrolls rustle. Dust trembles loose with each thunder strike. The shelves seem to lean in—not visibly, but sensing, listening. The storm grows louder. I can’t think. My hands rise to my temples, fingers flexing. I can’t take this—
It’s only when a tear falls from my cheek that I realize I’ve been sobbing.
Something has awakened—
Something I never asked for, but cannot deny.
I back toward the stairs. The lantern flickers low, nearly forgotten.
I stagger into the library. A shudder—mine, or the storm’s—shakes the space.
Books tumble from the shelves and thud to the floor.
I snatch the lantern and flee, my legs trembling.
I run—run from the Sanctum, from whatever it wants of me.
Something shatters in the distance—beyond the library—as I reach its doors.
Armor clatters as a guard rushes toward the sound.
My heart feels ready to burst. I don’t stop running. The hall warps—distance stretched, then snapped close. Heat flares beneath my ribs. My pulse hammers—and beneath it, a second rhythm.
I can’t breathe. I can’t—
“Vale!”
My voice cracks into the darkness. So pitch-black.
I succumb to it.