Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Ismell it before I see anything. Eucalyptus. The metallic tang of burning torches. The familiar warmth of hot stones seeping into my bones.
The healing chamber. I'm in the healing chamber. I keep my eyes closed, clinging to the darkness behind my lids. If I don't open them, I don't have to face what I've done. I don't have to remember. But then a memory creeps in. The Flame.
Use what you've buried.
My eyes fly open. I stare up at the shadows dancing along the vaulted ceiling, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my teeth. How long have I been here? Who brought me? What do they know?
I lift my hands to rub the sleep from my eyes. And freeze. My fingers are stained black. From the tips down to my knuckles, as if I dipped them in ink.
That only happens when I make memory elixirs, and I haven't—
The rest of the memory slams into me like a fist. Jordi. The arrow in his torso. His blood, hot and slick beneath my palms. The black veins crawling through his skin. The heat building behind my eyes until I thought they would burst into flames.
And then … his wound closing. Skin knitting together beneath my fingers like it had never been torn at all. A dull ache pulses beneath my ribs. I suck in a breath as I press my hand to my own torso, to the spot where the arrow pierced my brother.
So that's how it works. I don't just heal. I take. The wound. The pain. The poison.
I instinctively set my hand against the much older scar on my torso. The one that’s been there as far back as I can remember. That I have no memory of getting. I shake away the thought and try to focus on what matters now. Jordi is alive.
But I can’t ignore the black stains on my hands, or that I'm lying in the Veritas healing chamber wearing a gray shift dress that isn't mine, smelling of the floral soap the Veritas Order makes. Someone brought me here. Someone undressed me. Someone saw.
Goddess strike me. The Sages. There’s no way they don’t know about this. I squeeze my eyes shut again, willing the world to disappear. I can be banished for this.
Expelling a breath, I open my eyes again. The pendulum clock on the far wall reads five o'clock, but through the small window near the ceiling, the sky is nothing but thick gray clouds. It could be dawn. It could be dusk. In Lunaris, it's impossible to tell.
It doesn’t matter. I need to get out of here before someone comes. Swinging my legs over the hammock takes more effort than it should, but I manage to plant my feet on the ground without triggering the bells hooked to the ropes.
My eyes land on the pair of cloth maroon slippers with the gold Veritas signet embroidered on them and the folded pieces of paper beneath them. I grab everything and tiptoe toward the back of the chamber.
The mosaic map of Lunaris sprawls across the back wall — ancient tiles worn smooth by centuries of secrets. My eyes snag on the onyx temple in the upper corner. The object of my brother's obsession. My chest tightens.
I can't think about Jordi right now. I can't think about any of it. I press down on the temple. Wait for the click. Slip inside the wall. Darkness swallows me.
Veritas isn't as ancient as Lunaris or its labyrinth of tunnels, but the Sages built it with the same bones. The same secrets. Passages that snake through the buildings like veins, hidden from the eyes of anyone who doesn't know where to look.
I stand in the darkness for a moment before I summon a small fire in my palm.
It sparks to life immediately thanks to the warmth of the hot stones that hum beneath my skin.
The flame casts long shadows against the narrow area as I reach for the latch that leads into the hall.
I close my fist around the fire as I step into the dim orange glow and start walking.
Voices bleed through the stone. I freeze, heart climbing into my throat as I press against the wall and squint into the peephole beside the next latch.
The domed rotunda yawns open below me. At its center, flames lick the edges of a stone pit — a replica of the Undying Flame that burns in the healing chamber I just left.
The curved seats are nearly full. A sea of maroons and dark grays and golds, Moon Festival finery catching the firelight like scattered jewels. I search the crowd for familiar faces, for Naima or Margot, but before I can find them, the chatter in the room stops.
My gaze snaps to the top of the chamber.
Freida the Hunter steps into the firelight first. Veritas armor clings to her towering frame — maroon cloth draped over leather and iron plates.
Her fiery red hair is wound into two thick braids pinned behind her elegant, pointed ears.
She surveys the room the way a predator surveys a field of prey.
Anala the All-Seeing glides in behind her.
Her maroon gown flows like dark water, gold flowers embroidered across the fabric catching the light with every step.
Her thick dark hair crowns her head in an intricate braid, and her eyes sweep the room as if she can see through every wall.
Every secret. Every lie. I barely breathe as I watch Mother appear.
She’s wearing a dark green gown. The Council’s colors.
She wears a variation of these gowns every time she meets with them, which is more often than not these last few years.
Gold armor caps her shoulders in the shape of wings, but unlike the legion's ceremonial flourishes, hers taper into razor-sharp points.
The kind that could impale with a careless turn.
Her corset is forged from the same gilded metal, cinching her waist before giving way to a skirt that pools like spilled ink across the stone floor.
The Sages taught us that to understand the world, you must understand power.
How it moves. How it breathes. How it makes people kneel without ever asking them to.
Anala doesn't need her gift of foresight to make everyone in this room second-guess their own thoughts. Freida doesn't need her stature or her shrewd, warrior’s eyes to make them wither. And Mother doesn't need her sharp tongue.
They certainly don't need theatrics to remind everyone that they're in charge, but they use it anyway.
They use everything from their posture —shoulders back, chins held high— to where they stand in a room, underneath lights that help accentuate their sharp cheekbones and arched ears.
The Council does the same, of course, but they hide behind propaganda and carefully constructed lies.
The Sages don't hide. They take every awful thing that’s ever been said about them and use that as well. They wield weapons out of the narratives meant to destroy them.
“I'll get right to it.” Mother's voice cuts through the silence. “This year's Veritas Ceremony will be postponed until further notice.”
Gasps ripple through the chamber. Whispers rise like smoke.
“I also want to address the legion guards some of you have seen near our borders.” She pauses, letting the dread settle. “They will not set foot inside Veritas. The treaty stands. They will remain in their territory.”
Another wave of whispers. Mother silences it with a look.
“Yes, Tilda?”
“Any news on Ada and Jordan?” she asks, “Are they still recovering?”
“They are both perfectly fine.”
“Then why is Jordi at the Hall of Reflection instead of the Whispering Ponds?”
I go still. The Hall of Reflection is run by Veritas healers, but it’s primarily for the Council’s guard and the duelers. Veritas residents always go to the Ponds.
“Jordan doesn't require the Whispering Ponds,” Mother says smoothly. “He's resting at the Hall alongside a few others recovering from minor injuries.”
Minor injuries. I exhale a relieved breath.
“Are you going to address what I saw Ada do?” Ronnie's voice slices through the chamber. My breath catches. “I know what I saw! I saw her heal him!”
The gasps that follow are deafening. Whispers crash against the domed ceiling like waves against rock. I press my palms flat to the stone wall, lowering my head, willing my heart to slow. Ronnie has always had it out for us, but hearing the accusation, watching his envy take shape like this …
All at once the room goes silent. I look through the peephole and see the Sages' eyes flash silver, like blades catching the light before it strikes. It’s what happens when their emotions slip past their iron control.
The room seems to hold a collective breath when Freida steps forward. Her footsteps thunder across the stone floor as she crosses to Ronnie’s side of the chamber. Everyone on that side of the room shrinks back when she stops in front of them. My own shoulders stiffen.
“Ada is an alchemic healer,” she says quietly.
“She carries potions with her at all times.
That is what she used on Jordan's wound.” She leans closer to Ronnie, and I watch him flinch.
“I suggest you stop making dangerous accusations, Ronald.
Unless you'd like to discuss the implications further. With me. Alone.”
“We all know how much you hate us!” Naima's voice rings out from across the chamber, sharp and furious. “But to accuse her of that is low, even for you!”
My throat tightens at the sound of her defense — at the fire in her voice, the loyalty.
Murmurs of agreement ripple through the crowd.
Another housemate of ours speaks up in agreement.
Those of us who were raised at the Veritas Estate should have forged unbreakable bonds, but the Sages only chose seven of us to mentor and a few of the others, like Ronnie, never seemed to forgive us for it.
“That’s enough!” Mother's voice is a whip crack. “Ronald, I will see you after I'm finished.”
He says nothing.
“Details about the Moon Festival will be in the daily announcements. But there is one final matter — the reason I called you here,” Mother says as her gaze sweeps through the room.
“The Council will be holding a speech at the square shortly.
Everyone is expected to attend. That includes all of us in Veritas. "
More gasps. More whispers. The dread in the room thickens like fog.
Mother sighs. “Yes, Margarita?”
I press my face harder against the wall as I try to find Margot in the chamber.
“Bas says the Council is looking for whoever's been leaving messages on the walls,” she says. “He mentioned a potential uprising.”
Freida scoffs. “Bastian said this?”
“He says they're calling them renegades.”
“And what was your part in this conversation?” Mother asks sharply.
“I asked him what he meant by uprising.”
“You don't know what the word means? Should we be concerned about your education?”
A lesser person would crumble or stay silent, but Margot was one of the seven the Sages chose to mentor. Worse, like me, she’s one of the few who have defied them. She’s used to Mother’s ire. I can’t help but smile when I hear her voice grow stronger.
“I know what it means,” she says. “I just don't understand why they're using it — especially when the messages are just the Council's own manifesto.”
“Mocking the Council's manifesto,” Mother corrects. “Which they view as a threat.”
“I'm concerned about our residents,” Margot responds. “You said the guards will stay outside our walls. But Bas says they might send them in. To take people for questioning.”
The words land like a blow. I inhale sharply — so does everyone else. Then the chamber erupts. Voices rising, overlapping, crashing against the domed ceiling.
“Enough!” Mother's voice cuts through the chaos. “Our residents, Margarita? Do you remember what I said to you when you decided to go behind our back and add your name to that marriage list?”
Margot’s quiet for a moment. “Yes.”
“What did I say?”
A pause. Then —“You said the moment one of us is appointed a legion guard to marry, our mouths are metaphorically stitched shut. We become the ears of the Veritas Order.”
“Precisely.” Mother's smile is a cruel, beautiful thing. “Since you'll be married to a legion guard by the end of this year's festival, I suggest you start practicing now.”
She turns to address the room again, and her voice hardens to iron.
“Their guards will remain outside our gates. Whatever uprising they discuss — whatever messages appear on their walls — is not our concern.”
Voices swell again, but I've heard enough. I peel myself from the wall and keep moving. My legs are unsteady. My hands are shaking. The black stains on my fingers seem darker in the dim light of the passage, like shadows are seeping into my skin.
Memories crash over me in waves. Jordi's blood soaking my palms. The glowing eyes in the Shroud. The red letters dripping down the wall like fresh wounds.
The Flame's voice curling through my mind. Use what you've buried. The god scepter. The laborers. The way the Council's guards looked at us like we were already guilty of something. I run.