20. Chapter 20
Chapter twenty
Steam drifted in lazy tendrils from the rainfall stones embedded in the ceiling of Emmaline’s shower, the enchanted mineral filtering the water into a steady, scalding cascade.
Veins of glowing blue light pulsed along the carved rock walls, faint remnants of old magic woven into the foundation, casting the chamber in an otherworldly glow.
Emmaline stepped out, the moisture on her skin already cooling too quickly, the air biting against her exposed flesh.
She still wasn’t warm.
Her hands trembled as she squeezed the thick towel over her hair. She had run the water as hot as it would go, standing beneath it until the reservoir had emptied, but the chill clinging to her ribs—to her heart—wouldn’t leave.
The icy pain lingered, woven deep into her bones.
She stiffened as the chime of her speak-easy sounded yet again from the kitchen.
That was the third time. If she didn’t answer soon, she might have Margo or Ursula pounding on her doorstep, and she couldn’t face anyone right now.
Anxiety tightened her stomach as she crossed the room, dragging the towel over her arms, forcing her still-numb fingers to work.
Then she saw it, the fractured kitchen countertop. A jagged, splintering crack split the wood in a spiderweb of destruction radiating from where Deyric’s fist had slammed into it.
She swallowed hard and snatched up the speak-easy.
There were five messages. Two from Margo. Three from Ursula. Brunch.
Rot and ruin. She’d completely forgotten it was Saturday.
Her fingers flew over the symbols as she typed out the same response to both of them. I’m fine. Can’t make brunch today. Busy.
I take it he found you? Margo’s reply came almost instantly, a heart picto blinking at the end.
Then Ursula’s message followed, almost overlapping it. I bet you’re busy.
Emmaline barely had time to frown before another picto flashed on the screen. It was a troll doing something… she tilted her head, squinting…
“Oh.” Her eyes widened as the pieces clicked into place. “Well, that is just troubling, Ursula.”
Despite herself, her lips twitched, the smallest curve of a smile breaking through the growing despair.
And the ice in her chest melted just a fraction.
Shaking her head, she pulled up her signature sun picto in response before closing the speak-easy.
Her friends—Goddess, she was grateful for them.
Even if she wasn’t ready to see them, the simple reminder that they were there, that they were still her people, was enough to make her breathing come a little easier. It was enough to remind her that, despite everything, she wasn’t alone.
Emmaline poured herself a cup of tea, her movements slow and mechanical.
The rich scent of silverleaf and moon fennel wafted into the air, wrapping around her like a favorite blanket.
With unsteady hands, she lifted the cup and made her way onto the small balcony that overlooked the towering trees to the west of the Vale.
The ancient canopy stretched endlessly before her, mist clinging to the upper boughs like a treasured secret, the midday light filtering through in soft, golden beams.
A single tear welled in her eye before slipping free, trailing down her cheek.
A lump formed in her throat, and her grip tightened around the cup.
“Please,” she whispered. The words felt fragile, nearly lost to the June breeze.
“Show me the path forward, Goddess.” She exhaled, closing her eyes.
“I know I don’t deserve it, but please…” Her chin tilted down to her tea, and she watched as the steam rose in delicate spirals. “I know it was my own foolish delusions and poor decisions that got me here.”
She looked out into the forest beyond as if it might hold some answer to her pain. “But please… show me how to fix this. None of this is his fault.”
Only silence answered.
Her fingers clenched the ceramic mug. Maybe there was no fixing it. Maybe she should just turn herself in to the Patrol. End it. The thought of seeing Deyric again at the castle made her insides wrench with a deep, unbearable pull toward him that shouldn’t exist anymore.
Why? Why did her heart still yearn for him like this if she’d broken the bond?
A fresh wave of nausea surged, the same sickness that gripped her every time her traitorous mind flashed to his emerald eyes, to the raw betrayal in them when she’d said it a final time.
Her throat burned, bile rising, but she forced it down. And then—
Caelith.
The thought of seeing his smug face this week, of standing beside him at the Solstice Ball—fear surged. But then, just as quickly, it shifted. Darkened.
“He takes what he wants.” The fright curdled into something else, something venomous. “No thought of anyone else.”
The memory came unbidden of his fingers plucking the strand of Deyric’s hair from her shoulder and the way he had smirked as if claiming some small victory.
Had he simply been jealous? Annoyed that her attention, her fixation as Lady Isolde had called it, wasn’t entirely on him anymore? Or had it been something worse? Had he wanted to destroy something else important to Deyric? Another way to wound him, to own him after what he had done to his sister?
Her stomach churned. Then, before she even registered the movement, she threw the cup.
It soared off the balcony, tumbling toward the cobbled path below—
Shite.
She snapped a loop of magic after it, trying to catch it midair before it shattered, but she was too slow. A distant crack echoed up to her, the sound sharp and final.
“Imp’s damnation,” she cursed again, rubbing a hand over her face. That had been her mother’s favorite cup.
Was she destined to destroy everything that mattered to her? The thought settled deep, but it wasn’t despair that filled her. Inhaling slowly, she forced every lingering thread of doubt, every last shred of weakness, into silence. Self-pity wouldn’t serve her now.
She may have ruined her life, may have burned every bridge that could have led her to the future she once wanted—a life with her fated mate and love like her parents had found in each other—but that didn’t mean Caelith would walk away untouched. Not this time.
She traced a fingertip along the railing, calculating. If the Goddess had forsaken her, then fine. She would carve out her own justice. He had stolen from her. From Deyric’s sister. From who knows how many others. It was time someone took something from him.
“Lyra’s breath,” she whispered, the vow sliding over her tongue like a blade unsheathing. “I will make him pay.”
The moment the words left her lips, the wind lifted, and a hush fell over the Vale.
It wasn’t unnatural nor abrupt, but a quiet that pressed in just enough to be noticed.
The usual rustling of leaves stilled, and the ever-present hum of magic that pulsed beneath the city’s ancient roots seemed to soften as if something unseen had heard her.
A featherlight touch grazed her skin. Barely there, it brushed her cheek, soft as an exhale, warm as sunlight. Her heart jumped, and the wind danced around her, unseen tendrils dragging through her hair—not cruel, not kind.
“Goddess?” She raised her hand to her face.
But if the Goddess answered, it was only with agony.
Another sharp, punishing ache lanced through her skull, searing behind her eyes.
She sagged, gripping the balcony rail, gasping as the pain dug through her mind, tearing through the delicate strings of thought, leaving only raw, pulsing torture in its wake.
The wind picked up again, carrying the scent of damp earth and ancient woodsmoke, the stillness breaking as if the moment had never happened.
“He will be punished,” she panted. “Just… not today.”
She could barely string two coherent thoughts together, let alone plot revenge. But tomorrow—tomorrow, she would start. And by the time the Solstice Ball arrived, Caelith would wish he were dead.
If she let him live that long.