Chapter Twenty-Five
Titus drags me through the tunnels, Gabriel at our heels. He leads us around corners, down steps—twists and turns that leave me dizzy.
Will knows we’re here. Of course he does. He told me himself that Morana has spies everywhere. Have they already raided the vault?
Will said he could feel my fear. Morana’s blood cured me of the curse that would have turned me into a Shifter, but the venom… it’s still in my veins. Does that mean we’re still connected, somehow? Even if he can’t control me… can he still feel what I feel?
“How do you know where we’re going?” I ask, breathless.
“Hide-and-seek,” Titus says, his voice strained. “When my parents would come to visit—Leo and I—it was her favorite game.” He trips over his words as he skids to a halt in front of a crack in the stone wall. “Here!” He bangs his fist on the wall. “It should be here!”
“What?” Gabriel asks, glancing over his shoulder, hands raised as if ready to cave the tunnel in on itself—and anyone who might give chase.
“Here!” Titus groans. “The passage to the vault—it’s locked—only a windwalker—” He lets out a stream of curses, slamming his fist against the stone.
Click. There’s a soft hiss and a low squeal as the stone slides in, then across, revealing a doorway.
Owen leans against the frame, his dirty-blond hair resplendent in the soft amber glow of the room beyond. “About time,” he says casually, hoisting a shield onto his hip. “Thought I was going to have to lug this back to the Starchaser all by my lonesome.”
“How did you—” I start, but Owen looks all too eager to detail his entire heist, and as I’m sure it involves shifting into a mouse and crawling through vents, I hold a hand up before he can speak. “Never mind.”
Owen pouts as he steps out of the way, allowing us entry, though he sticks his foot forward as if to trip Gabriel, who shoots him a glare that could melt flesh from bone, and he flicks a glance at Titus and me—at our clasped hands—his lips twitching with a barely contained smirk.
Titus sweeps into the vault, and I follow, my mouth gaping as I survey the large, oblong room.
Two stories, packed to the brim with artifacts preserved in glass cases: costumes from historical productions; weapons from a time before the Fall; books with spines that seem to sparkle, as if they were imbued with Manan; trinkets labeled things like THE CHALICE OF WELL WISHES and THE AETHERIAN CRYSTAL.
Dozens of paintings adorn the walls, but Titus appears drawn to one in particular—a portrait of a mermaid sunbathing on a rock.
He reaches out, metal fingers lingering just above the canvas, where a signature had been scrawled in the bottom right corner.
Mina Avery.
“My mother painted this,” he whispers, his voice raw.
I squeeze his hand. He squeezes back.
“They’ll be here any minute,” he says, turning his back to the painting to face Owen, now toying with an ivory spyglass. “Have you found the Helm?”
“It’s not here,” Owen says. “But I found this.” He holds up the shield once more. Shades of purple, green, and blue shimmer in the light of the crystal chandeliers—Elysian Iron.
He sweeps an ornate vase from a large mahogany table—Gabriel cringes at the loud crash that follows—and lays the shield face up.
“It’s a map of the Republic of Ruin,” Owen says, tracing the lines engraved in its surface—the borders of the island inlaid with silver.
He points at the words etched at the top of the shield, reading aloud, “Only truth can mend the past.” He glances at me. “Sound familiar?”
Tears prick my eyes, and I swallow hard. Father was right. The Helm isn’t here. It’s just another clue.
I reach out, my fingers skimming the surface of the shield.
WHOOSH.
A blast of wind almost knocks us backward, but Titus plants his feet, his grip on me tight enough that I’m not sure who it hurts more—him or me.
“Maker of All,” Gabriel breathes, his bright red hair sticking straight up.
A sparkling, silver message appears on the surface of the shield, shimmering an inch above the map. Written in a long-forgotten language, the illuminated words remind me of the glowing ink of the Elysian Navigator.
“It’s a part of the clue,” I say, trying—and failing—to hide the disappointment in my voice. “What now? We can’t read this.”
Titus bends, squinting to read the script, and a spark of hope flares in his eyes.
“I’ve seen this before. It’s Animaela—an ancient tongue shared by a sect of Sorceresses centuries ago.
There are few alive who still practice the form of magic required to interpret a message like this, but they do exist.” He turns to me, his voice measured—determined. “We will find one.”
“Great,” Gabriel says dryly, watching the main entrance to the vault. “Now can we go?”
Owen’s lips curve, a teasing smile. “You’re sure you don’t want to stay for one more dance, Sir Bellamy?”
Gabriel snarls, grabbing the shield, but Owen just holds out his hands for Gabriel and me to take.
I brace for the icy chill of the wind and the sickening jolt of the vortex.
Nothing happens.
Owen shuts his eyes tight, his face turning red.
Still nothing.
The color drains from his face, and his eyes fling wide. “Wards.”
My heart skips a beat.
A low growl rumbles in Titus’s chest. “Wards?”
Owen doesn’t look afraid, only annoyed—as if this were a minor inconvenience. “They’re preventing me from creating a vortex.”
Panic claws at my chest, tearing whatever remains of my composure to shreds. Will might already be on the other side of the door. Knowing him, he could already be inside, a bat watching from the shadows, feeding on my terror, my dread. My fear.
The door creaks open, and my vision goes white as Titus, Gabriel, and Owen all raise their hands, preparing to strike.
I take a steadying breath, fighting the impulse to sink to the floor and curl into a ball.
I can’t go back to the Burning Lands. I refuse to let Will turn me into some kind of pet.
I will not let Will use my fear against me.
No. I grab hold of it, molding it, turning it into a weapon.
I will not surrender.
I will never surrender.
And I won’t go down without a fight.
I plant my feet. Lift my trembling hands. Focus on the presence of blood. One body. One heart, beating wildly. I latch on to the hum, preparing to pull, when—
“Come with me!” A small voice, as soft as a cooing dove. A slight girl in a maid’s black-and-white uniform peeks inside the vault, her eyes wide. “Hurry! Before they find you!”
Titus takes a step forward, hands still raised, fingers vibrating with untapped power. “Who are you?” That voice—the voice of the wicked, feared prince of the Eerie. The voice of the Reaper.
But the girl doesn’t cower. She steps farther into the room to meet him. Rolls up her sleeve. “My name is Jol, daughter of Hassana,” she says quickly. “Leo was a friend.”
A black winged dagger materializes on the surface of her skin—the mark of the Order of Hildegarde. The tattoo that distinguishes her as an ally.
Owen releases a tight breath, lowering his hands. “Good enough for me.”
Titus grinds his jaw, glancing over his shoulder at me. Gabriel watches, shoulders tense.
“Your call,” Titus says, his expression carefully neutral despite the concern that forms a tiny crease between his brows.
I meet Jol’s gaze. She must be Albert’s age—too young to be a soldier. Yet she’s risking her life to save ours. “If you cross us,” I tell her, my voice lethally quiet, “you will regret it.”
Jol doesn’t flinch. She just nods, motioning for us to follow as she leads us back through the servant’s passage from which we entered the vault. We follow her through long, dark hallways, past doors carved from stone, until I’m met with the familiar, comforting smell of hay.
Jol signals for us to be quiet, crouching before she slips out of the narrow wooden door, looking left, right, before motioning for us to follow.
We crawl into the brick-paved stable on hands and knees and dive behind the carriage where Jol hides, the flickering gas lamps casting shadows over her youthful face, drawn with fear.
We’re not alone in the vast, crowded stables. Soldiers patrol the rows of stalls; they block exits, preventing confused, outraged guests from leaving the ball.
Jol uses the distraction to her advantage, moving swiftly toward another carriage, then another, and we follow, heads down, steps even.
I glance at Owen, wondering if I’ll see my same doubts mirrored in his eyes, but his lips are pursed, brows knit, as if he were working out a puzzle.
Why would Jol take us to the stables when there’s clearly no way out?
“In here,” Jol whispers, slipping inside a stall at the far end of a row, its tall wooden gate obscuring the interior—and its inhabitant—from view.
I follow the others, my heart in my throat.
“Swiftwing!” Titus breathes, a smile transforming his face at the sight of a Pegasus—a Pegasus that bears striking resemblance to the one I saw in Leo’s portrait.
He presses his forehead to the creature’s cheek.
“Shh,” he whispers, soothing the agitated horse as I saw Jack do so many times.
“We’re not going to hurt you. These are my friends. ”
“I’m touched.” Owen claps Titus on the shoulder. He turns to Gabriel. “How skilled are you at shifting into small animals?”
Gabriel’s brows pinch, his pale cheeks mottled pink. “I can manage a raccoon.”
“That’ll do.”
Jol, peering outside, hisses, “Another patrol is coming! You have to go now!”
I whirl to face her. “You have to come, too!” I insist, but she waves me off.
“I can’t!” Her eyes glaze with tears. “My little sister works here—I’m not leaving her behind!”
“We’ll come back for—”
“No!” Jol shakes her head, backing away, her hand clutching the handle of the stable door. “If they think I’ve defected, they’ll kill her.”
“Aster!” Titus’s voice comes from above. I turn to find him already seated atop Swiftwing, his bloodred gauntlet extended.