Chapter 33
Wes
I can’t sit still.
We just got back from the chamber maybe twenty minutes ago, and my skin feels like it’s been stretched too tight across my bones.
The trek back was silent—all of us lost in our own heads, trying to process what we’d witnessed.
Bree went straight to the kitchen the moment we walked through the sanctuary doors, and the rest of us are wandering around like we don’t know how to be around each other anymore.
The hunger won’t let me settle.
Not the usual gnawing emptiness I’ve gotten used to.
This is sharper, more focused. It started shifting that night—Bree giving without flinching, like there was nothing wrong with needing.
And then Gray, steady and stubborn, holding me there like I wasn’t going to break him.
Different, but both of them hit something I didn’t know I was starving for.
Since then the hunger doesn’t just sit in me—it watches, listens.
Feels every crack in the room. The tight line of Gray’s jaw.
The way Jace keeps flexing his hands like he’s ready to throw something.
How Bree’s absence feels like a missing piece of myself.
I pad down the hallway toward the kitchen, bare feet silent on cool stone. Pancakes and explanations, Bree said. So here we are, heading toward the conversation none of us want to have but can’t avoid.
The scent hits me before I reach the doorway—vanilla, butter, something warm and sweet that makes my mouth water.
I round the corner and stop.
Jace is at the stove, still in the clothes we wore to the chamber, hair disheveled from the trek back, but his hands move with the practiced confidence of someone who’s done this a thousand times.
A stack of golden pancakes sits on a plate beside him—perfectly round, fluffy, the kind he’s been perfecting since we all met.
He flips a pancake with the theatrical flair I’ve come to expect, shoulders relaxing slightly when he sees me. “Right on time for the grand unveiling.” He gestures at his work with mock ceremony. “Behold—Sanctuary Supremes. Patent pending.”
Despite everything, I almost smile. “Sanctuary Supremes?”
“Golden perfection. Fluffy clouds of breakfast joy. The antidote to cosmic horror.” He finally glances at me, and there’s something different in his expression. More settled, maybe. Less like he’s performing and more like he’s just… here. “Want one?”
“Yeah.” I settle onto one of the stools, watching him work. There’s something soothing about the ritual of it—the precise pour of batter, the patient wait for bubbles to form, the satisfying flip. Normal. Human. Safe.
“So,” Jace says, not looking at me. “That was a thing that happened.”
I snort. “Understatement of the century.”
“Want to talk about it?”
I consider that. The chamber. The mirrors. The way Bree looked when she spoke Riley’s name—like she was seeing something the rest of us couldn’t. The ash under our feet and the feeling that we were standing in a place that remembered choices that had gone wrong.
“I don’t know if I can,” I admit. “It felt like… like we weren’t supposed to be there. But also like we had to be.”
Jace nods slowly. “Yeah. Like the place was waiting for her specifically, but it wanted witnesses.”
“The way it responded to her…” I shake my head. “That wasn’t just magic. That was recognition.”
“Recognition of what?”
Before I can answer, the sound of footsteps echoes from the hallway. Jace immediately goes rigid, hand tightening on the spatula.
“Don’t touch my pancakes,” he says without turning around. “I’m serious, Wes. These are art.”
I look over my shoulder. “It’s not me you need to worry about.”
Gray appears in the doorway, hair damp like he just got out of the shower. He takes in the scene—Jace at the stove, the stack of pancakes, my position at the counter—and something shifts in his expression. Not quite a smile, but close.
“Pancakes and explanations,” he says, echoing Bree’s words from earlier.
“That was the deal,” I confirm.
He moves closer, and I catch the scent of soap and something uniquely him. My awareness sharpens, that new hunger stirring to life. It’s not uncomfortable exactly, but it’s… noticeable. The way he moves, the quiet strength in his presence, the way he glances at Jace with something soft in his eyes.
“Need to use the bathroom,” Jace announces suddenly, setting down the spatula carefully because he’s someone who takes his cooking seriously. “These are at a critical stage. Do. Not. Touch. Anything.”
He points at both of us with mock severity, then disappears down the hallway.
Gray and I look at each other. Then at the pancakes.
“He’s very serious about his breakfast today,” Gray observes.
“Apparently they’re Sanctuary Supremes.”
“Patent pending?”
“Patent pending.”
We share a look that’s almost normal. Almost like we’re not all reeling from whatever happened in that chamber. Almost like my skin isn’t humming with awareness of how close he’s standing.
That’s when Mairen bustles in.
“Oh!” She stops short, taking in the scene with bright eyes. “I’m so sorry, darlings—I missed breakfast prep, didn’t I?” She surveys Jace’s setup with the efficiency of someone who’s spent decades in kitchens. “Well, no matter. I’ll just get a batch going—”
“Actually,” I start, but she’s already moving.
And by moving, I mean completely taking over.
She ties on an apron that wasn’t there a moment ago, examines Jace’s batter with a critical eye, then begins…
improving. A splash of vanilla that wasn’t in the original recipe.
A pinch of something that smells like cinnamon but warmer.
She adjusts the heat on the stove, tests the pan with a drop of water that sizzles and dances.
“Um,” Gray says. “Jace is pretty particular about—”
“Oh, these will be lovely,” Mairen says cheerfully, pouring perfect circles of batter that somehow look more golden than Jace’s. “Much fluffier than mine usually turn out.”
I watch in fascination as she works. There’s something almost magical about it—the way she moves like she’s been using this kitchen for years, how the pancakes seem to cook faster and more evenly under her attention. Even the smell is better, richer somehow.
The laughter when Gray and I exchange looks tastes warm and golden, but it doesn’t touch the deeper hunger. Nothing really does except—
“Mairen,” I say carefully, pushing the thought away. “Jace has a very specific process—”
“Does he? How lovely.” She flips three pancakes simultaneously without looking. All perfect. “Young men should have passions.”
Gray catches my eye over her head, and I can see he’s trying not to laugh.
That’s when Jace returns.
He rounds the corner talking. “—probably overthinking it, but the chamber felt like it was testing us somehow, like it wanted to see if we’d—”
He stops. Stares.
His carefully organized station has been completely reorganized. The batter bowl is in a different spot. There are new ingredients on the counter he definitely didn’t put there. Mairen is at his stove, humming softly, making pancakes with his recipe but somehow better.
The look on his face is pure betrayal.
“What,” he says slowly, “is happening to my Sanctuary Supremes?”
Mairen looks up with a brilliant smile. “Oh, you’re back! I was just helping—”
“Helping?” Jace’s voice climbs an octave. “Those are not Sanctuary Supremes. You can’t just—there’s a process, Mairen! A specific technique!”
“Is there? How wonderful.” She plates another stack of golden perfection. “These are turning out beautifully.”
I watch Jace’s face cycle through several emotions. Outrage. Disbelief. A growing horror as he realizes that her version actually does smell better.
“You moved my vanilla,” he says weakly.
“Just a touch more. Brings out the flavor.”
“And you changed the temperature.”
“Medium-low works better for even cooking.”
“Those aren’t my pancakes anymore.”
Mairen pats his arm gently. “They’re better pancakes, dear.”
Jace looks at Gray and me like we’re his last hope for justice in an unjust world. “Tell her. Tell her about pancake jurisdiction. About sacred breakfast territory.”
Gray’s lips are twitching. “Well—”
“This is a violation,” Jace continues dramatically. “A culinary coup. An overthrow of established pancake government.”
That’s when Rhett and Theo appear, ready to get this Oath conversation over with.
“Explanation time?” Rhett asks, taking in the scene.
“Mairen made better pancakes,” I explain.
“They’re not better,” Jace protests. “They’re different. Illegally different.”
Theo picks up one of Mairen’s pancakes and takes a bite. His eyebrows rise. “These are really good.”
“Traitor,” Jace mutters.
“Try one,” Mairen offers, holding out the plate to Jace with maternal patience.
He eyes it like it might bite him. “I already know what my pancakes taste like.”
“These aren’t your pancakes, remember?” Gray points out. “These are illegal pancakes.”
“Exactly—” Jace stops, glares at him. “You’re not helping.”
“Just try it,” I say.
Jace takes the pancake like he’s accepting evidence of his own failure. Bites it. Chews slowly.
His expression goes through another cycle. This time ending on grudging admiration.
“Fine,” he mutters. “They’re good.”
“They’re better than good,” Theo says around another bite.
“They’re not Sanctuary Supremes though,” Jace insists. “They’re… they’re…”
“Superior Sanctuary Stacks?” I suggest.
Jace points at all of us accusingly. “You’re all banned from my kitchen.”
“Is it still your kitchen if Mairen’s the one making the food?” Theo asks innocently.
Before Jace can respond to that devastating blow, footsteps echo from the main hallway. Heavier. More deliberate.
Stellan appears in the doorway.
He takes in the scene with that particular stillness of his—Mairen at the stove, Jace’s theatrical outrage, the rest of us gathered around like we’re watching dinner theater. His gray eyes scan the group, noting who’s here and who’s not.
“Domestic bliss,” he observes. “How charming.”
There’s something in his tone that makes the easy humor drain out of the room. Not cruel, exactly but like he’s seeing something the rest of us are missing.
“Explanations,” Rhett explains when Stellan’s gray eyes scan the group. “That was the deal.”
“I can see that.” Stellan moves further into the kitchen, his presence immediately shifting the energy. “Though I suspect the truth won’t be as comforting as Jace’s… or Mairen’s cooking.”
The chamber. Riley. The ash and mirrors and the feeling that we’d stepped into a place that shouldn’t exist.
The lightness evaporates completely.
“What was that place?” Gray asks quietly.
“Ancient,” a soft voice says from the window. “Sacred. And… waiting.”
We all turn. Everyone—Stellan, Thane, Rhett, Theo, even Mairen—looks surprised to see Bree standing there. Like we’d all somehow forgotten she was in the room.
She turns from the window to face us, and there’s something different in her expression.
Older, maybe. More certain. Like the girl who spoke Riley’s name and meant it.
The mist that usually curls around her seems darker too—silver shot through with larger threads of black.
It moves differently, more restless, than I’ve seen before.
“You’ve all been talking around me,” she continues, her voice steady despite the way her hands shake slightly. “But I was there. I saw her. I know what that chamber is, even if I don’t understand it yet.”
The silence stretches, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid.
Stellan doesn’t answer immediately. He accepts a mug of coffee from Mairen with a nod of thanks, then leans against the counter in a way that makes every gesture look deliberate.
“She’s not wrong,” he says finally, his gray eyes fixing on Bree with something that might be approval. “Though ‘waiting’ is perhaps understating it.”
“That’s not really an answer,” Jace points out.
“Isn’t it?” Stellan’s mouth quirks. “Your pancakes are rituals, Jace. The chamber we found is just older. And more patient.”
Something cold settles in my stomach. “More patient how?”
“It wants something,” Stellan says simply. “Something it’s been waiting centuries to claim.”
“Bree,” Theo says. It’s not a question.
Stellan inclines his head. “The last of her line. The only one left who can give it what it needs.”
“Which is what?” Rhett demands.
But before Stellan can answer, another voice cuts through the kitchen.
“Completion.”
We all turn. Thane stands in the doorway, silver eyes unreadable and his usual composure frayed at the edges.
“The chamber is bound to an ancient rite,” he continues, moving into the room with that predatory grace of his. “One that was forbidden for good reason.”
Stellan’s expression sharpens with something that might be approval. Or warning.
“The Ashen Oath,” Thane says, and the words seem to hang in the air like a death sentence.
None of us speak. The name makes something cold coil in my stomach. Like hearing it changes something fundamental, makes whatever happened in that chamber more real.
“What’s the Ashen Oath?” I ask, though part of me doesn’t want to know.
Stellan and Thane exchange a look—brief, loaded with something the rest of us don’t get.
“Sit down,” Stellan says finally. “This will take a while.”
We arrange ourselves around the kitchen island, pancakes forgotten. Mairen continues cooking like she’s not listening, but I notice how still she’s gone. How her movements have become more careful, more quiet.
Even she knows we’re about to learn something that changes everything.
Stellan sets down his mug, and when he speaks, his voice carries the weight of centuries.
“The Ashen Oath is the last rite of the Ether Source line,” he begins. “A binding between the self and its reflection. Between what is and what could be.”
My chest tightens. The chamber. The mirrors. The ash under our feet.
“It requires a choice,” Thane adds, his silver eyes fixed on some point beyond us. “One that can’t be undone. The Council has kept it buried for good reason.”
Stellan and Thane exchange another look—brief, loaded with something the rest of us don’t get. There’s something in that silence, something they’re not saying.
The hunger in me sharpens, clawing toward something I don’t understand. Toward Bree and what she’s being pulled toward.
And toward the growing certainty that whatever Stellan tells us next will change everything.