Chapter 14 Echoes of the Past
ECHOES OF THE PAST
She waited until the castle quieted, until footsteps faded and torches dimmed. Tonight, she would finally begin her search.
Ella slipped silently through the corridor, guided by instinct, a tug beneath her ribs.
Somewhere in these ancient halls, the answer lay buried: the artifact promised by the prophecy, strong enough to tear the Veil between worlds.
And maybe something that could explain the unfamiliar power stirring inside her, just beyond her grasp.
She’d finally met one of Jakobav’s attendants earlier that day.
The woman seemed a decade older—beautiful, patient, and carrying the kind of brazen confidence Ella found immediately endearing.
Ella had peppered her with questions. Who had changed her clothes while she was unconscious?
And was she allowed to make wardrobe requests?
Kalenya, as the attendant introduced herself, arched a brow at Ella’s relentless chatter. “What would you prefer, then? High-heeled battle boots to match your demands?”
Ella snapped back without hesitation. “I’ve never liked shoes of any sort. I fight best barefoot. But if I must wear something, regular boots will do.”
A flicker of amusement crossed Kalenya’s face, though Ella caught the hint of calculation in her eyes.
Ella pushed further. “And I’ll take a dress. Everyone wants a warrior to fight in pants. No one expects blades strapped at both calves and thighs.”
“You want a gown for combat,” Kalenya said, the disbelief plain in her tone.
“You asked.” Ella lifted a brow and shrugged. She was tired of wearing drab, oversized garb. “Pretty and lethal are not mutually exclusive.”
That earned her the ghost of a reluctant smile.
“So that’s why they kept you from me,” Kalenya muttered. “Fierce little thing. No wonder half the castle’s already nervous.”
Ella wondered how long it would take for word of her being there to spread. In Orchid, gossip like that would have raced through court like wildfire.
By the time Kalenya returned with the boots and her dress, suspicion had softened into a guarded respect.
Ella noticed the quick work of the woman’s needle: pockets stitched into the black fabric, the hem shortened above the knee to free her legs.
The leather puzzled her. From a distance, it looked like silk, but up close, it shimmered like obsidian veined with starlight.
Now, as she moved down the torchlit hall, Ella was grateful for it. The strange Dravaryn leather flexed easily with her movement, whispering against her skin, catching the light in fractured gleams and reminding her of the castle itself: beauty that was unexpected and alive.
She wound her way through narrow turns until she came upon four guards standing in full armor blocking a wide hallway that opened into a larger chamber. There would be no skirting past them, but she would fight her way through if she had to, even if she’d rather not draw that kind of attention.
Time to find out which way this place leans. Prisoner…or free to roam.
The scrape of steel echoed as every hand went to a hilt. Torchlight struck polished armor, casting an ominous gleam across their helms. Boots shifted. Shoulders squared.
Ella froze. Her palms dampened against her thighs, grateful for the pockets Kalenya had stitched into the dress. One hid the small knife she’d swiped from Jakobav’s chamber. It was nothing ornate, just a soldier’s blade—one forgotten when his room was purged of weapons.
But it would cut, and it was hers. That was enough. He probably hadn’t missed it yet. Or it was a test, and he’d noticed the moment it vanished, deciding to let her keep it—the kind of man who would wait until the moment it amused him to make her pay.
For a moment, the corridor held its breath.
Then, as though a silent command passed among them, the guards let their hands fall back into place. The rasp of metal dulled. The tension bled from the air, but not completely.
The shortest of them lifted his chin, just barely, in acknowledgment.
Ella swallowed, forced her legs to move, and kept walking.
Well, that settled it.
Her muscles only loosened once the guards were behind her, and it became clear Jakobav was the one running things here.
No one had mentioned the king since her arrival, and even before that, the townspeople in the small villages outside Dravaryn’s capital, Draethmar, had whispered that the crown was hidden from sight.
Officially, foreign delegations were to blame.
Unofficially, rumor spoke of a devastating illness the royal family refused to admit.
Why did Dravaryn keep so many secrets?
The thought lingered as her gaze drifted along the hall, and she realized the castle no longer looked the same.
It had changed, or maybe she had.
She’d been in the castle less than a week, yet it felt as though she was only now seeing it.
Compared to the warmth and opulence of Jakobav’s chambers, everywhere else had felt cold and hollow.
Now, the floors no longer chilled her feet, and the walls weren’t slick with mildew.
The castle’s beauty was almost discreet, drawing her to look closer.
The walls weren’t lifeless stone but ranged from charcoal to glassy black, reflecting light like a gem cracked open too violently. The air smelled different now too, less smoke and iron, more spice. Although she should’ve been afraid, she felt seen instead.
As much as Ella wanted to linger, she knew she likely was on borrowed time and continued her search.
A shadowed corridor revealed a cracked window.
Of course the windows weren’t locked.
Dravaryns were proud at best, and overconfident to the point of delusion.
Ella rolled her eyes and moved toward it.
Jakobav might’ve given her freedom to wander for now, but she had no idea how far that freedom stretched. Certainly not far enough to test the front gates. Better to slip out a window than assume she was welcome to walk out the foyer doors.
She ducked through without hesitation.
The window was barely a story above the ground, an easy drop she could make without twisting an ankle, if luck was on her side. But if anyone saw her outside the castle walls at this hour, she might lose any illusion of freedom Jakobav had given her.
The ledge was slick with climbing ivy, and her foot slipped once, catching on a knot of vines, but she steadied herself with practiced ease. Orchid’s palace had trained her well in the art of sneaking out unseen.
It didn’t matter how much a child loved their parents, or how steady a life they’d built. Curiosity came calling, even for the content.
Dravaryn vines, however, were thicker, their tendrils coiling like ropes.
She forced her way through, leaves whispering against her skin, until the wall released her into open air.
From there, the ground sloped downward, leading her to the faint glow she had felt pulling at her ribs.
By the time she pushed past a tangle of hedges, the path had already chosen her.
The air outside hit her like warm silk, castle towering behind her, spires jutting against the stars. But here, on its quiet western edge, something else waited.
A garden. No…the garden.
Shadow-laced hedges curled in wild spirals, glowing faintly in the moonlight. She followed a narrow path that wound through humming trees until it spilled into a clearing.
And there they were.
Thousands of black roses. Ella stopped cold.
The roses shimmered with a starlit darkness, black but never flat, layered and opulent, with thorn-covered vines seeming almost alive.
But as she took a closer look, she realized they weren’t just black.
Plum, charcoal, and violet glints winked in the petals like secrets.
Each bloom unfurled as if painted with midnight, grief, and sorcery.
She reached out and brushed a petal, and it vibrated, warm beneath her fingers.
Breathtaking.
The greenery was so stunning it felt wrong, too vibrant, too intricate, as if painted by a hand that had never seen daylight.
Leaves gleamed a green too delicate to be real.
Their texture caught her eye and looked like the skin of a snake, ridged and damp, a chill woven into every vein.
She imagined stroking the vine with her fingertip, and she swore she would feel a clammy pulse, wet and dry at once, adrenaline sparking as if the thorns would swivel and bite.
Droplets of dew clung to the surface, glittering though there were no clouds and no rain had fallen.
For some gods-forsaken reason, her eyes welled up.
Absolutely not.
She blinked hard, furious with herself. She couldn’t help it.
Awe surged as something like recognition and longing seized control. As if part of her had been waiting to find this place, and now that she had, it still wasn’t enough.
Every petal of the shimmering roses seemed to lean toward her, listening, as if the buds knew her name and were watching her as closely as she was watching them.
A faint warmth stirred beneath her collarbone, right beneath the Orchid sigil she’d spent years hiding.
It answered the roses with a single pulse. Quiet but unmistakable.
She’d only ever seen a black rose carved into Dravaryn’s crest. She’d thought it only a symbol or maybe a warning.
But they were real, and they were beautiful.
No gardener had shaped this.
No mortal hand could have coaxed such perfection from soil and shadow.
Why did it feel like the roses whispered to her? And why did it feel as though her blood had whispered back?
It certainly didn’t fit the narrative.
This was not the version of Dravaryn she had been raised to fear. Her parents had lulled her to sleep with stories of war and vengeance, weaving Dravaryn into every nightmare.