Chapter 65 Jules
Jules
The maid leads us down a corridor I’ve never seen before—one that feels older than the rest of the Crimson Spires, like it was built when people still believed in cathedrals and curses with the same unwavering certainty.
The air changes as we walk. It gets cooler…stiller. Even the carpet beneath my shoes seems to muffle sound—swallowing our footsteps as if the Spires themselves are holding their breath.
Hanna leans on me—light as a shadow. Every few steps her knees wobble, and fear spikes through me so sharp I taste it, like pennies on my tongue. I tighten my arm around her waist, trying to give her some of my steadiness…trying not to think about what Lucian said.
A week, he’d said. A week and she’ll be drawn behind the Bone Gates. But it hasn’t even been a whole day and she’s already fading!
I can’t let my mind go there—I can’t. If I imagine Hanna fading away into that skeletal nightmare kingdom, I’ll start crying and I won’t stop.
The maid opens a pair of towering double doors—dark wood carved with thorned roses and chalices and strange sigils that make my skin prickle when I look at them too long. She steps aside with a small curtsy.
And we walk into—
Oh my God.
It’s the biggest ballroom I’ve ever seen but it isn’t just a ballroom—it’s a cathedral dressed up as a palace.
The ceiling soars so high it feels impossible, ribbed like the inside of a vast stone beast. Crimson draperies fall in heavy folds from iron balconies and arched floor-to-ceiling windows that stretch upward.
The light in here isn’t sunlight and it isn’t candlelight—it’s something in-between—a low red-gold glow that makes everything look like it’s caught in permanent autumn dusk.
The floor is a sheet of glossy black obsidian, so polished it mirrors the room like dark water. When I take a step, my reflection slides beneath me like I’m walking on a frozen lake.
At the far end of the room, a chandelier hangs like a crown of rubies—faceted crystals that catch the reddish light and scatter it into blood-colored sparks. The whole place smells faintly of old roses and incense…until another scent hits me.
It’s metallic and sharp—copper and salt. It can only be one thing—
Blood.
My stomach turns as I glance down…and my breath catches in my throat.
A vast pentagram has been drawn in blood across the obsidian floor—the lines thick and gleaming, every edge precise. It looks wet…it looks fresh. The sight of it is so surreal—so wrong and ritualistic—that for a second my brain refuses to accept it as real.
Then I see Lucian.
He stands near the center of the ballroom, huge and immaculate, like he stepped out of a dark fairy tale. Whistler is with him, slouching the way he always does like none of this is impressive, but he’s being quiet and looks more alert—like he can feel the stakes humming in the air.
Lucian’s gaze snaps to me the instant I enter, and something tightens in my chest. He lifts one hand and motions for me to come to him.
“Come, my darling—we must hurry while the blood is still fresh.”
His voice is low and controlled but I can hear strain under it—like he’s holding something back with sheer force of will.
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry.
“That's an awful lot of blood,” I say faintly. “Whose is it?”
His eyes flick briefly to the pentagram, and then back to me—steady and unflinching.
“Mine, of course—for I will be calling this portal into existence. With the help of Whistler, of course.”
He nods at the Realm-Hopper who nods back respectfully.
For a second, I just stare at the pentagram—so much blood, all spilled for me.
Lucian bled himself—bled himself enough to paint the floor with it—because of me. And because of Hanna.
Because he’s letting me go.
My heart fists in my chest. This isn’t a casual gesture. Does he really want me gone?
“Oh…of course,” I say at last. I still can't quite believe that he bled so much just to send me home, but before I can ask any more questions, Lucian draws himself up to his full height and I feel the unspoken presence of his blood magic drawing in around us—like storm clouds filled with lightning rolling in.
Hanna sways beside me, her green eyes unfocused, as if the room is too bright and too dim at the same time. Whistler steps closer to her, ready to catch her if she goes down. My protective instincts kick hard, and I slip my arm around her once more.
Get her home. Just get her home, I think.
Lucian lifts both hands—palms upward, as if he’s offering something to the air itself—and his voice drops into a register that doesn’t sound quite human anymore.
“It is time,” he rumbles and the small hairs on my arms and the back of my neck rise.
His eyes glow faintly as he speaks, chanting what sounds like a rhyming spell that seems to engrave itself on my memory as he says each line.
“By blood that binds and blood that buys,
By shadow’s throat and starless skies—
I name the seam between the spheres,
I call the gap that feeds on fears.
By iron vow and velvet night,
By thirst made tame, by fated bite—
Unravel, world, your stitched disguise,
And show the road where nowhere lies.
Let hinge of Nothing swing and sigh,
Let silence open, laws deny—
For what is torn cannot be sewn,
And what is crossed is crossed alone.
Depths unseen, lend me your flame,
Unknowable, I speak your name—
Not to command, but to implore:
Make me a door…
Make me a door.”
The last line lands like a bell tolling and for a heartbeat, the ballroom goes utterly still.
Even the chandelier seems to stop glittering. Even my breath catches as if the air itself is listening.
Then…
A single spark appears above the center of the pentagram.
It’s tiny at first, like the first firefly of summer. It flickers and dances and then it starts to swell—fed by something I can’t see but can feel—power rippling outward in waves that prickle across my skin.
This is Lucian’s blood magic, stretched to its outer limits. He is willing this portal into being—using all his strength to make me a way home.
The spark grows into a bright bead of energy.
Suspended in midair, it hums like a living thing.
It expands again, and then again, until it becomes a swirling vortex—light spiraling in on itself like a tornado—white-hot at the core and red-gold at the edges.
The air around it warps in almost invisible waves.
It’s beautiful and terrifying at the same time and it feels hungry.
Lucian’s jaw clenches, a vein standing out at his temple. His shoulders lock as if he’s physically holding the vortex in place with muscle and will alone. The pentagram is still immaculate, but the room smells strongly now of blood and ozone and something like burned roses.
“Now, go!” he commands us. “I cannot hold this open for long.”
Whistler doesn’t hesitate. He slides one arm around Hanna’s waist and lifts her like she weighs nothing, his expression suddenly all business.
“Come on, girly—home we go,” he says to her.
Hanna’s eyes widen in panic as the swirling light expands, drawing the hem of her gown toward it.
“Jules—” she whispers, her voice thin.
“I’m right here,” I tell her fiercely, squeezing her hand. “Just hold on—we’re getting you out.”
Whistler steps forward with her and they enter the vortex together. The light wraps around them like mist and then they’re gone.
Just…gone.
The vortex flares brighter for a moment and my stomach flips. I take a step toward it—and then everything inside me locks up.
Because leaving means—leaving Lucian…leaving the Spires. It means leaving the strange, brutal, beautiful world that I’ve somehow fallen in love with and the only man who’s ever looked at my curves like they were a treasure instead of a problem.
I’m halfway to the light when something in my chest twists so hard I actually stop walking and I turn back.
Lucian is still there, holding his arms out, holding the vortex open. His face is tight with effort now, lips drawn back slightly over the points of his fangs. His eyes burn like embers.
My throat aches.
“Lucian, if you wanted me to stay—” I begin.
His gaze snaps sharper, furious and sharp.
“No, you cannot. You must go,” he growls.
My heart lurches like I’ve been struck.
“But I thought—”
“Go!” he demands.
The word cracks through the ballroom like a whip and the air around him shudders.
The vortex surges, pulling harder, tugging at my hair, my dress, the very warmth of my skin. Lucian’s shoulders tremble for the first time and I realize—truly realize—this is costing him.
It’s not just blood…not just power.
Something deeper is flowing out of him—something that makes my eyes burn. This is everything he’s got—his very life-force is flowing out of him. But he’s doing it anyway—even if it drains him. Even if it breaks him.
I don’t think—I just move.
I rush back to him and throw myself into his arms.
For a second he stiffens, as if he’s afraid to touch me—afraid that if he holds me he won’t let me go. Then his arms close around me anyway, crushing me against his chest.
I stand on my tiptoes and kiss him. It’s not a gentle kiss—it’s desperate and bittersweet. It’s everything I feel but cannot say.
Lucian’s mouth covers mine like he’s starving, and for a heartbeat I feel him tremble—like the bond between us, whatever it is, yanks tight.
I break the kiss just enough to whisper against his lips.
“Goodbye…I'll never forget you.”
His eyes flash—pain and hunger and something like grief flashing in their depths.
But then his hands loosen and I know for sure, he’s letting me go.
I turn away before my courage dies. Mr. Mittens is miraculously still here—tail puffed, eyes huge, but he hasn’t bolted. He watches the vortex like he understands it’s dangerous.
“Come here, baby,” I whisper, my voice shaking.
I scoop him up and he makes a startled mrrp sound and then clings to me, claws carefully hooked into my dress like he’s decided I’m his safe place.
My feet carry me forward, but my body feels like it’s made of lead. And my heart feels like it’s being left behind on the obsidian floor.
But I run towards the vortex anyway—before I can stop myself, before I can look back again, before the look on Lucian’s face can undo me.
The light swallows me.
It’s cold and hot at the same time—like plunging into icy water that somehow burns. For a fraction of a second, I feel weightless.
And then—everything tears sideways.
The last thing I feel, right before the world turns inside out, is the phantom pressure of Lucian’s arms around me…like my body is already mourning his loss.
Oh God. Oh God, what have I done?