Chapter 14
MORGAN
Ipaced the length of the warehouse room for what felt like the hundredth time that morning, the concrete floor cold under my socks even through the thin layer of dust that never seemed to settle completely.
The space had started to feel less like a prison and more like a grim habit over the past week, which annoyed me more than I cared to admit.
The cot in the corner, with its lumpy mattress and threadbare blanket, had become my reluctant bed.
The cracked mirror propped against the wall reflected a version of myself I barely recognized, paler than usual, with shadows under my eyes that spoke of too many sleepless nights listening to the distant hum of the city outside.
And those wards on the door, the faint carvings that shimmered like heat rising off pavement on a hot day, they still held me back every time I got too close, a invisible wall that pushed with just enough force to remind me I wasn't going anywhere without his say-so.
Xavian had left about an hour ago, muttering something about food before slipping out into the rain-soaked streets.
His absences always carried this undercurrent of tension, a mix of relief at having the room to myself and a nagging worry that he'd come back in one of those states, eyes black and veins throbbing, like that night after the massacre.
But things had shifted since then. We talked more now, not just the clipped interrogations from before, but actual conversations, even if they were laced with my sarcasm and his guarded grunts.
He wasn't looming over me every second, wasn't snapping threats as often.
Still an asshole, still keeping me locked in here like some twisted pet project, but he'd brought me clothes a few days back, simple stuff like jeans and a couple of shirts from who knows where, after mine had gotten ruined with all that blood.
He hadn't made a big deal of it, just tossed them on the cot with a curt "These should fit," and I'd changed without a word, grateful that I didn't have to sit around in stained rags anymore.
It didn't make him any less controlling, but it was something.
The door creaked open then, pulling me out of my thoughts, and there he was, stepping inside with a plastic bag dangling from one hand, his coat slick with rain.
Water dripped from his hair, darkening the strands that fell across his forehead, and he shook it off like a dog, scattering droplets across the floor.
He looked tired, the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that had become familiar, but his eyes were clear, no trace of that unnatural blackness.
"Brought food," he said, his voice low and rough as always, setting the bag on the makeshift table near the lantern.
"Nothing fancy. Sandwiches, some fruit. Better than the canned crap. "
I stopped pacing and crossed my arms, leaning against the wall to keep some distance, though the room was small enough that it didn't make much difference.
"Oh, joy. Another gourmet meal in captivity.
What, no candlelight this time?" My tone came out sharper than necessary, but it was habit by now, a way to keep things from getting too comfortable.
He didn't rise to it, just pulled out a wrapped sandwich and tossed it my way.
I caught it, unwrapping it to find ham and cheese on stale bread, but it was edible, and hunger won out over pride.
I took a bite, chewing slowly as he settled onto the edge of the cot, unwrapping his own.
We ate in silence for a minute, the only sounds the rain pattering against the warehouse roof and the occasional creak of the building settling.
I glanced at him, noting the way his shoulders slumped a bit, less rigid than when we'd first clashed in here.
He was still dangerous, still the guy who'd dragged me off the street, but the constant edge had dulled, replaced by this uneasy coexistence.
I hated how human he seemed sometimes, how his weariness made him less of a monster and more of a man trapped in his own mess.
"So," I said finally, breaking the quiet as I finished half the sandwich and set the rest aside.
"You've been dropping all these tidbits about your world, but you never actually explain it.
Not really. If I'm supposed to be connected to it somehow, don't you think it's time to fill in the blanks?
Or are you still playing the mysterious asshole card? "
He paused mid-bite, his gaze lifting to meet mine, a flicker of irritation crossing his features before he swallowed and set his food down.
"It's not simple to explain. Velrith isn't some far-off land you can map out on paper.
It's... layered. Behind what we call the Shardline.
A veil, thin in places, that separates the mortal world from ours.
Not entirely separate realms, exactly, but overlapping, woven together in ways that don't always align. "
I raised an eyebrow, leaning forward a bit despite myself. "Overlapping? Like, right here, right now? So if I reach out..." I extended my arm toward the empty air between us, waving my hand dramatically. "Am I touching somebody in your world? Some ghost bumping elbows with invisible people?"
He snorted, a sound halfway between amusement and frustration, and shook his head sharply.
"No. The Shardline isn't a window you poke through.
It's more like... echoes. Places where the worlds bleed into each other, but not everywhere, not all the time.
You might stand in a street here, and in Velrith, it's a hall of stone, but you can't just reach across.
It takes power, rituals, or weak points to cross.
And even then, it's not safe. The layers shift, sometimes align, sometimes tear.
That's why exiles like me end up stuck, powers muted because the connection's frayed. "
I rolled my eyes, though a spark of curiosity flickered in my chest. "Okay, fine, not that simple. Give me a picture I can actually wrap my head around. If it's layered over this world, why haven't I noticed? Why doesn't everybody know about it? And don't give me that vague 'it's hidden' bullshit."
He rubbed at his temple, a gesture I'd come to recognize as him fighting impatience, and leaned back against the wall.
"Because most mortals are blind to it. The Shardline filters things, keeps the worlds from colliding too violently.
But it's not perfect. Thin spots exist, old places where the veil wears down, like that church you mentioned, or parks with ancient stones.
That's why you get those sensations, the dreams of halls and humming.
Echoes bleeding through. Velrith is there, always, but accessing it means stepping behind the Shardline, through a rift or a gate.
It's not like walking down the street and turning a corner. "
I paced a couple steps, processing that, my mind racing to poke holes in it.
It sounded insane, like something out of a bad fantasy novel, but after seeing his eyes go black, feeling that barrier push me back, I couldn't dismiss it outright.
Still, I wasn't about to let him know that.
"And you want to go back there? Drag me along, I assume, since I'm your walking pacifier for that damn blade.
What happens if we do? You get your powers back, turn into some lordly prick, and I end up in a worse cage? "
His expression darkened, but he didn't snap like he might have a week ago.
Instead, he met my gaze steadily. "Going back isn't simple either.
The exile was meant to be permanent, sealed with the curse.
But Virelya's reacting to you, quieting in ways it never has.
That could be a key, a way to cross without shattering everything.
Risks are high, though. The one who betrayed me, they'd sense it.
Pursuit, maybe worse. And the crossing itself.
.. it could unravel you if you're not prepared.
But answers about you? They're more likely there than here.
This mortal world's too diluted, records scattered or lost. Velrith has archives, relics that could trace whatever you are. "
I stopped pacing, crossing my arms again as a chill ran through me, not just from the drafty room. "Whatever I am? Still circling that, huh? Come on, spit it out. You've been poking at my dreams, my weird feelings, like I'm some puzzle. What's your best guess?”
He hesitated, his jaw tightening, and for a moment I thought he'd brush me off like before.
But then he sighed, running a hand through his damp hair.
"Nothing fits cleanly. Could be a lost bloodline, distant kin from Velrith exiled generations ago, magic dormant until something woke it.
Or contact with a cursed object, tainted by the Shardline, imprinting echoes on you.
Maybe old exposure to something powerful, a rift you wandered near without knowing.
Hell, you could be an anomaly, some fluke where the layers crossed wrong and marked you.
But none of it explains why Virelya rejects you yet quiets near you.
It's not straightforward, Morgan. That's why I need to figure it out. "
Skepticism surged in me, mixed with annoyance at how neatly he avoided certainty, but underneath it, that damn curiosity stirred again, pulling at threads I'd ignored my whole life.
The dreams, the strange pulls toward old buildings, they suddenly felt less like imagination and more like clues I hadn't wanted to see.
I hated how it made sense in a twisted way, hated even more that talking to him like this felt almost normal now.
"Great, so I'm a mystery box. And your solution is to haul me through this Shardline, into a world full of backstabbing, curse-casting nutjobs and magic that could 'unravel' me.
Sounds like a blast. Why not just let me go and solve your curse some other way?
Or is that too logical for your brooding exile vibe? "
He stood then, closing the distance a bit, though not enough to crowd me, his eyes intense but not threatening.
"Because you're tied to this now, whether you like it or not.
And yes, we are going back. Not tomorrow, but soon.
I won't drag you blind, but staying here risks more blackouts, more exposure.
More… massacres like before. If I can figure you out there, maybe I can break the curse. "
I held his gaze, the air between us thick with that complicated tension, no longer just fear but something messier, a reluctant openness that scared me almost as much.
He was still dangerous, still the controlling bastard keeping me here, but in moments like this, he seemed almost reachable, human in his frustrations and uncertainties.
I didn't trust it, didn't want to, but the walls were cracking, and the idea of crossing into his world felt less like an abstract nightmare and more like an inevitable step, pulling us both toward whatever answers waited on the other side.