Chapter 15
Idril
The house feels restless tonight, and so do I.
There’s a feeling I can’t shake. I can sense it everywhere. In the air, on my skin, in every breath I take. It’s right there.
Expectation.
My sundress brushes against my thighs as I make yet another lap around my room, trying to expel some of this unease coiled under my skin.
Shade’s been gone for two days, and I’m really starting to worry about him. I keep reminding myself that at least I know Father hasn’t caught him. He wouldn’t be able to resist holding Shade’s capture over my head if he had.
I just have to hope he’s out in the forest, living his best life. Not like me—locked in this bedroom.
The silver lining is that I’m allowed to eat now. Mara brought me a tray last night, sneaking me a book from the library as well.
I still feel wobbly, and my fingers shook when I buttoned my cardigan this morning, but aside from that and a low-grade headache I can ignore, I feel alright.
Omegas always bounce back quicker than betas. Which apparently makes Alphas think they have free rein over our punishments and bodies when it comes to abuse. It’s like they think our pain is somehow less real because the bruises fade slightly faster.
Raising my fingers to my neck, I prod gently at my most recent injuries from Father’s tirade.
It’s impossible to deny the truth any longer. My father hates me, and he’s not a good man.
No. I can’t sugarcoat it.
He’s evil.
He’s hit me before. He’s beaten me multiple times. But, he’s never lost control the way he did the other day. Something has him on edge, and I think I know what it might be.
Caelan.
The thought of my Alpha brings a soft smile to my lips.
I groan outloud. Not your Alpha, Idril, Fates.
Except… that feels untrue. Because Caelan feels like mine. The churning pool of silver in my chest that I still don’t quite understand is proof that something exists between us.
When I lose myself in memories of his arms around me, his hands cradling my face, his mouth on mine, the silver in my soul churns faster.
Like it wants him. Like it’s begging for him.
I don’t know how it works, what it is, or why it’s there, but I do know that he’ll be back for me.
A few days. That’s what he said.
It’s been three.
He made me a promise, and I believe him. Maybe that makes me naive, but if there’s one part of me I can never manage to force into submission, it’s hope. Hope that one day, things will change.
When I close my eyes, I can still see him as he was that night. There’s nothing soft about him. He looks made for war, and moves like he carries the weight of a thousand lifetimes on his shoulders.
He’s violence wrapped in sin. The sweetest ruin made manifest. And he touches me with the gentleness of a man holding something he’s terrified to crush.
I pull the sleeves of my cardigan over my hands nervously and begin another circuit around my room.
My thoughts won’t stop racing.
What if tonight’s the night?
The thought sends my heart galloping. The silver pool spins faster, like its responding to my excitement with anticipation of its own.
I stop at my balcony doors, watching the light fade over the horizon.
Everything is strangely quiet outside. I haven’t seen any guards for the last two evenings.
It’s not like I’m in a position to be paying attention to their rotations, but the fact that no one’s walking the perimeter like normal sends a sense of foreboding down my spine.
Now that I think about it… I haven’t heard boots clomping down the hall outside my room tonight as security does their rounds, either.
The foreboding grows, making my hands shake with anxiety. Something feels… off.
What if the guards are hiding somewhere on the property? What if Father somehow discovered that Caelan’s the one who broke in? What if he’s setting some kind of trap to catch him?
My mouth goes dry. He promised he’d be back, and I know as sure as I know my own name that he won’t break that promise.
Which means…
I have to warn him. I have to warn him before he makes it into the house. Convince him to wait a few days. Return for me when things die down.
Determination fills me. I swipe my book, taking it with me out to my balcony. My towel—which I’m pretending for my own sanity is actually a blanket—is still where I left it outside and I grab it, wrapping it around my shoulders as I curl up on the patio chair.
My plan is simple. I’ll stay outside. I’ll wait and watch for his arrival. I’ll warn him at the first sign that he’s returned. I’ll stay out all night if I have to.
Having a plan, even a simple one, soothes my anxiety. I flip open my book, deciding to read for a while, keep my mind busy so I don’t fall asleep.
It takes less than thirty minutes for me to realize that getting lost in one of my favorite stories tonight isn’t going to happen. No matter how hard I try to focus, my mind won’t let me. I groan in irritation when I find my eyes once again straying from the page and toward the tree line.
The wind rustles through the leaves. Giving up, I set my book on my lap, and let my gaze focus on the forest like it clearly wants to.
We are so isolated out here. Is our seclusion just another way for Father to keep me in my cage?
I wonder if my Mother felt the same overwhelming loneliness and isolation when she was alive. I wonder if books once brought her joy and escape from the desolation of reality, like they do for me.
My fingers skim across the book’s spine.
As the sun sets over the edge of the world, memories appear, crisp and clear and magical.
When I was little, she spent hours telling me stories every day.
She was an endless vault of them. A library unto herself.
There was one in particular that was her favorite.
Mine, too. I used to beg her to tell it every day.
I let myself fall into the memory, wrapping it around me like the blanket and safety my instincts have been denied.
“A long time ago,” she whispers, leaning close like she’s sharing a secret.
I giggle, because that’s how her stories always begin.
“There was a kingdom of beautiful, enchanting creatures who could speak to beasts, bend shadows to their will, and convince the very earth to answer their call, if they asked nicely enough.”
“They were a joyous people, and for quite some time, their realm thrived, existing in peace. But as so often occurs, some were unhappy with their lot in life. They wanted more. To prevent the world from ripping apart, the kingdom disappeared, folding in on itself. Trees, rivers, the very dirt itself, each piece of their realm fell into an unnatural slumber, and the rest of the world forgot their names. Their story was lost to time.”
“But not all had been lost,” she smiles like she knows something no one else does, eyes bright and beautiful in the firelight.
“Before they were all forced into slumber, a single heartbeat escaped the veil between realms. It searched until it found refuge in a girl child not yet born, her future hidden so deeply that not even the heartbeat itself knew when she would wake.”
“The rhythm of that heartbeat became a lullaby. One passed from mother to daughter for thousands of years. It lives on through blood and bone and memory. It will continue on for eternity, or until the stars fall from the sky, heralding the birth of the daughter that holds its secrets in her very essence. The last flicker of a forgotten land. The last hope against a forgotten foe.”
“How will they know who she is?” I ask, though I know the answer. It never changes no matter how often she tells the story.
She smiles. “She will be made of Flame to keep them warm and lead them to remembrance. She will provide the very Air they will need to shout their names into the void. She will call on Water to nourish their lost souls back to life. Her plea will stir the Earth to remember their grief, and the grief of those lost before her.”
“She will be born with a crown of starlight and carry fire in her veins. She will wake the sleeping kingdom, and worlds will tremble when she takes her throne.”
The last time she told me that story was a few weeks after my designation emerged. I was so upset by Father’s unending anger, and one night my frustration got the best of me. I remember complaining, insisting I was too old for fairy tales.
“I suppose you are, my Darling.” Mother frowns, her blue eyes darkening. I want to take the words back immediately. I don’t want to make my mother sad.
Before I can back peddle, she folds her hands in her lap and straightens her shoulders, leveling me with an assessing look. “Did I ever tell you the price? The one that the magic exacted right before the kingdom sealed itself away?”
I shake my head, frowning in confusion. Thousands of retellings and not once has she mentioned a price.
She hums, leaning closer. “Before the kingdom slumbered, the wild magic of the land lashed out. It was fractured. Bleeding. It could barely be contained. It struck out, latching onto the flesh of mankind, twisting and reforming the blood and memories of some into something different. Something dark.”
“Evil?” I ask, intrigued by the macabre turn the whimsical tale has taken.
“No. Not evil, exactly.” She cocks her head, considering the best way to explain.
“It gave life to children of fang and claw. Of shadow and fur, and insatiable thirst. They weren’t curses, but neither were they precisely gifts, either.
Just an echo of the magic that was slowly dying, reaching out to find a home wherever it could. ”
“What happened to them?”
“Nothing happened to them,” she laughs. The sound is light. Airy.
Looking back, I wonder how often she was faking her joy. I wonder how often she was truly happy.
“But they’re important?” I press, wondering why she’s just now mentioning this part of the story.