TWENTY-EIGHT
Amelia stood barefoot on the surface of the mirror lake, the shadows of the Midnight Realm clinging to the edges of her vision, pressing in, threatening.
The sky above shimmered with stars that moved too quickly, making her dizzy.
Fog clung to her legs, and she couldn’t move again. Her heart thundered uncomfortably.
Lyana stood before her.
Wearing the same white dress, her red hair flowing around her.
“You look tired,” Lyana said gently, her voice like chimes.
Amelia didn’t answer at first. Now that she was here, it felt oddly safe. Warmer than the waking world and the cold, fearful presence of the growing Rift and their responsibility to stop it.
“We saw what happened,” Amelia whispered, “to you and Bane in East Town. He…couldn’t go through with it. That’s why it failed.”
Lyana’s face flinched, perhaps reliving the ordeal. She cleared her throat, glancing away. “He loved me so, and I him. Now we both suffer.”
“Then tell me what we do.”
Lyana smiled sadly, voice low and soothing. “Find Bane’s journal. It will show you the ritual, he pieced it together from old Gemino scripts. He kept the journal hidden.”
Amelia leaned in. “Where?”
“In the Lux Spire library, in the North Wing’s restricted archives. Behind the third bookshelf of Mythic Histories, there’s a false panel.”
Amelia blinked. “I’m not a High Scholar, we can’t get into the archives.”
“You just need to find someone who is. Their token will be the key.”
Her breath caught. “How do you know this?”
“Bane was a scholar, too,” Lyana whispered, brushing Amelia’s cheek like a mother or a sister might. “Go, Amelia. The key is in your past.”
And then she was gone, swallowed by a blinding light.
Amelia woke with tears drying on her cheeks, her hand outstretched towards nothing.
Silas sat in an armchair before her, forehead furrowed as he read from a book in his lap. He noticed her stirring and looked up. His small smile faded.
“Are you alright?” he asked at once. “You seemed to be sleeping peacefully.”
Amelia sat up in the chair and glanced out the window. The sun was still up, but casting an orange glow, Brinkley’s common room lit like it was on fire.
“I was with Lyana again,” she said, finding Silas’ eyes. “She told me where to find Bane’s journal, the one with the ritual inside.” She paused, peering down at her fingers before looking back up. “Do you think…if we find the ritual, we might be able to adapt the words, to perhaps avoid…”
Silas’ face was absent of emotion. “What? Avoid the sacrifice?” He sighed as he shut the book. “Winslow, that’s a fool’s hope, and all it will do is get us both sent to the Midnight Realm and let the chaos continue. We can’t risk that.”
Emotion flooded her. “Finley…”
He just looked at her, serious as she had ever seen him. “Winslow.”
She swallowed, glancing away, unable to keep eye contact with his startling blue eyes.
Silas cleared his throat. “So where is it then?” A few minutes later, Amelia had explained, and he had stood. He paced across the carpeted floor like he wanted to tear holes through it by the pace of his feet alone. “Absolutely not.”
“I know, it’s awful,” Amelia said slowly, pain sitting heavily on her chest, “but we have no choice. They’re the only ones I know who have access.”
He stopped pacing and cut her a look, teeth clenched. “ No . What about Halpert?”
Amelia shook her head. “I told you before…he’s high up, but he’s not that high up.”
Silas put his fisted hands to his hips and glared off into the corner. The sun had almost set now, darkness creeping into the cottage, a chill entering with it. He let out a heavy sigh through his nose, before looking back to Amelia.
“We find someone else, then.” He began to walk away, towards the small library that Brinkley had. “There will be records, someone we can approach…or steal from.” He stalked away, disappearing into the library as he muttered, “anyone else but them.”
Amelia stayed seated in the armchair, watching the space he disappeared from. She was not surprised by his reaction, yet time was not on their side. The choice, as she saw it, was made for them. For her.
She stood and walked up the opposite hallway to the guest bedroom. She pulled on the new cloak she’d had to buy since losing hers to the Sanctum, and packed several items she thought she may need into a satchel. The last item, she hesitated before reaching for it.
The pendant. The artificial siphon.
It had sat on the dresser in the corner since they had returned, steadfastly ignored. Silas had barely been able to look at it.
It pulsed with something that called her, like to like. She hated the feeling, didn’t want to touch it now, but knew it was a necessary evil.
Amelia picked it up and placed it around her neck. It sat like a heavy weight against her chest, unpleasant and unwelcome. It did not siphon her magic in the way it had to Silas, no…it strengthened her, made the magic in her blood stir awake, shake its head, and demand her attention.
She breathed out slowly through her nose, gathering herself, before walking back out into the sitting room.
Brinkley was nowhere to be seen. He had left in the early afternoon and hadn’t returned yet.
Silas was still inside the library. She could hear him muttering to himself and pulling books from shelves.
Amelia looked longingly towards where he was hidden, knowing he would only try to stop her.
She left, quiet as a whisper.
Outside, dusk and chill nipped at her skin. She pulled her clock tighter around her body and reached for the Waystone chip.
She swallowed once, allowing the smallest hint of indecision to root her feet to the spot for just a moment, before gritting her teeth with determination and pressing the chip with her thumb.
Magic whisked her away, leaving behind nothing but cold, damp air.
The large home of her childhood loomed ahead, its pristine facade stark against the ever-darkening sky. Each step on the gravel path felt heavier, memories of manipulation and betrayal pressing down on her.
I swore I'd never return here.
The pendant around her neck pulsed gently, dampening her bond with Silas, allowing her to be so far apart from him. The undercurrent of him remained, like a feeble, flickering heartbeat.
She hesitated near the picket fencing, glancing over at the hedging, trimmed to perfection as was expected of the homeowners. They sought nothing but excellence in everything around them. Even those they should love unconditionally.
Amelia took in an unsteady breath, eyes on the front door, forcing her feet forwards until she stood before it.
The door opened before she could knock, and her heart leapt into her throat, panic immediately coursing through her body at the sight of the woman there.
Her mother's eyes widened in surprise, a mixture of relief and apprehension.
“Amelia,” her mother said, her cold voice sending shivers down her spine. “Come in.”
A command, an expectation.
Her fingers shook, her teeth clenched. But she would not show them she was afraid. She was a storm. She was not the same teenager who had run. Amelia stepped after her mother, keeping a healthy distance between them.
Inside, the house was as immaculate as ever, a stark contrast to the turmoil churning within her. Photographs adorned the walls, and she was stunned to find many of her own face, barely managing a facsimile of a smile.
“You said you would never return here,” her mother said, voice like a memory that cut through her skin. She turned when they reached the sitting area, looking at her daughter and folding her arms across her white blouse. “I suppose you’ve come to ask us for something?”
Amelia’s mouth opened, but then her father stepped into the room, wearing a dark grey jumper, and looking down at a notebook, glasses propped on his nose. She stalled at the sight of him, sucking in sharp breath. He heard it, and glanced up, pausing, eyes widening.
He snapped the book shut and looked between Amelia and his wife, something creeping into his eyes that she didn’t understand. Something like triumph.
Unease settled within, and she took a step backwards.
“Amelia,” her father said. “This is certainly a surprise.”
She raised her head, glaring at him. The man who was supposed to love her, protect her. “I won’t be staying long,” Amelia asserted, surprised at the strength in her voice that she did not feel. “I’m working on a project, and I need archive access in the Spire. I came for your blood rite.”
She only knew of the term because she’d heard Halpert speaking of it. A ring, inlaid with a blood crystal that had been formed with the High Scholar’s essence within, granting access to the restricted area. Amelia spied it on her father’s finger as he clutched the book to his chest.
Her father raised a thick brow, looking down at the golden ring, the blood-red crystal winking at him.
He breathed out a sigh through his nose. “What project?”
“Classified,” Amelia said, holding his unwavering gaze.
Her mother let out a small breath. She looked over at her, dark eyes cold as they gazed at her only child. “I knew it. You only came here for something, crawling back when you need a favour.”
Amelia bit into the side of her cheek until she tasted blood, raw anger swelling until she could feel it vibrating in her fingertips.
Her father cleared his throat, bringing her attention back to him. “You may use my blood rite,” he said, and Amelia’s heart jumped with sudden hope. “But we will require a favour in return.”
The hope deflated as quickly as it had swelled. She shifted her weight uneasily. “What favour would that be?”
“We've been working on a solution,” her father began. “The Rift's expansion is accelerating. We believe activating your intelligence rune could be the key to completing a formula your mother and I have worked on for many years.”
Amelia’s spine tingled at the mention, the carved runes reacting to the mere suggestion.
Dread.
Panic.
Rage.
She shook with all of it.