Chapter 5 Chains of Darkness
Chains of Darkness
Raisa
The tower is colder than I remember, and each hour after dusk leaches more warmth from the stones, the air, even the thin wool blanket pulled over my knees.
I count every heartbeat, wishing I could be anyone else, anywhere else, or at the very least, somewhere I could feel the warmth of the sun instead of its glaring absence.
It’s almost peaceful. Almost. Except things like peace don’t exist in places like this. Not even for princesses.
The moment footsteps sound in the stairwell, the air sharpens, the cold growing teeth. It takes three slow, terrible heartbeats before I hear the angry slap of Father’s boots on the landing. There’s a metal scrape, a pause, and then the tower door swings open with the violence of a storm.
He fills the threshold, every inch of space consumed by his body, his shadow, and the unyielding force of his gaze.
“Get up,” he says, not even looking at me, but at the corner of the ceiling where water stains make the shape of a shattered star.
I’m already sitting, my back braced against the stone wall, my feet tucked under my nightgown, but I stand anyway. It seems safer, for reasons I’m too tired to name.
He closes the door behind him, and the little bit of the world outside that spilled in vanishes. He stands with his hands behind his back, his jaw clenched tight enough to snap his molars. The gray in his hair looks like steel tonight, and his eyes reflect nothing.
“You saw them,” he says. It’s not a question.
I glance at the window, where a pale thumbprint of moon slants in. “Saw who?”
He moves so fast I barely have time to flinch before he’s in front of me, the smell of gold and old leather clinging to him. “Don’t toy with me, Raisa.”
I look at the stones. “The men in the forest?”
He exhales through his nose, a sound like a growl. “What did they say to you?”
The lie comes easily, even if my voice shakes. “Nothing. They scared me.”
His hand slams against the wall beside my head, the bones of his knuckles whitening with force. “Don’t lie to me. Do you know who they are?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing I had the courage to scream back. “No. I’ve never seen them before.” That part is mostly true. My dreams are my own, one secret I get to keep.
Father draws back, runs a hand through his hair, pacing the three steps it takes to cross my cell. “There are things outside this castle you don’t understand,” he says. “There are people who would kill you, Raisa.”
I don’t believe him. Not about the killing. Not about who and what I should fear. If anything, I think I was safer out there with them than I am in this room with him.
He turns, his eyes boring into me. “Did they touch you?”
My cheeks burn, but I refuse to answer.
Father leans closer, pinning me in place with the heat of his gaze. “Did they know your name?”
I hesitate, and that’s enough.
“Gods,” he hisses, turning away. He puts both hands on the little table in the corner and squeezes the edge until the wood creaks. “You have no idea what you’ve done.”
My heart hammers. I think of the way they looked at me, the way their eyes held something that wasn’t just hunger, but memory. Recognition.
“What does it matter?” I ask, my voice shaking more than I want it to. “Why are you so afraid of them?”
His head whips around. “Because they’re monsters, Raisa. Killers. They want to destroy everything I’ve built. Everything I’ve protected you from.”
A flash of memory hits. Black wings. Father’s hand like a shackle around my arm. My defiant scream echoing through the garden. The sound of my own furious breath as seven pairs of curious eyes lock on mine.
I don’t know what it means, but I know what Father offers isn’t protection. It’s a cage of lies.
“They didn’t hurt me,” I whisper.
He takes a step forward, his fists clenching at his sides. “You don’t know what they’re capable of.” The words have a jagged edge, every syllable punctured with some secret I’ll never understand. Ignorance breeds complacency, and he likes me complacent.
“Then tell me,” I say. “Tell me what you know.”
For the first time, he hesitates. There’s something almost like pity in his face, but it sours into anger before I can name it.
“You wouldn’t understand.”
I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood. “Try me.”
He stares at me for a long time, and I see the war behind his eyes, see him trying to decide whether to break or bury me.
He chooses bury, just like always. “You’re to stay here until I say otherwise,” he says, his voice flat with finality. “No garden. No windows.”
Panic spikes in my chest. “You can’t–”
“I can,” he says, his hand tightening around the doorframe. “And I will. If you ever want to see sunlight again, Raisa, you’ll do as I say.”
He slams the door behind him, the sound echoing against the stone like a landslide rushing down the mountainside.
The lock clicks, the sound so heavy it could anchor a ship.
The silence that follows is absolute.
I stand in the dark, the only motion the trembling in my hands, and listen to the thud of his boots as he descends the stairs. Each step takes him farther away.
I want to scream, to rage, to rip the world open and claw my way out. But I just stand there, pressed against the wall, waiting for the cold to swallow me whole.
The quiet doesn’t last.
It never does.
Once the echoes of Father’s anger have faded down the stairwell, the dark closes in tighter.
I pace the threadbare rug, wearing circles into the pile until the only thing between me and the cold stone is the fragile skin of my bare feet.
Every time I cross the tiny room, I reach for the window.
It’s barely bigger than an arrow-slit, meant only to bring in air, but I hope against reason that an escape may have materialized anyway, that I might slip through the thin glass like a ghost.
But I’m as trapped as ever, locked in Father’s tower of secrets and lies.
I press my forehead to the wall beside the tiny window, my breath fogging the tiny pane. On the other side, the world is still, the garden nothing more than a black smear broken by the jagged silhouettes of hedges and statuary. Farther out, the forest looms, a deeper darkness, unbroken and wild.
I peel a flake of paint from the wall, rolling it between my thumb and forefinger. I wonder if it’s possible to dig through the stone with my nails, or if I’d just bleed out before I made a dent.
Father’s words rattle in my ears, a hive of accusations and warnings. Monsters. Killers. I can’t decide if he’s afraid for me or of me, and the not-knowing gnaws at the edges of my calm.
My pulse hasn’t slowed since he left.
I close my eyes, listening for something—anything—to drown out my thoughts. In the distance, a church bell tolls. Closer, there’s the whisper of a branch scraping the roof. But that’s it. No voices, no laughter, not even a dog barking in the night.
It’s like the world has turned its back on this place.
I let myself imagine the forest as more than a prison. I imagine the way the air tastes, the way the leaves feel under my feet. I imagine running, unbound, until my lungs burn and my muscles shake. Until there’s nothing left of me but heat and wildness.
For a second, I can almost feel the wind against my face and the animal panic of freedom.
A soft thud brings me back. I open my eyes.
A raven perches on the small ledge outside the window, its feathers slicked tight against its body. It cocks its head, fixing me with a gaze as sharp as any blade.
I stare back, unwilling to break the silence. The bird doesn’t move. It just watches me, its eyes black and unblinking.
Another lands, and then another, until all three stand shoulder to shoulder, pressed so tightly together in the small space that their wings overlap. The moonlight catches in their feathers, turning them to polished obsidian, cold and perfect.
I rest my palm on the window, only a breath away from their claws.
“What do you want?” I whisper.
The center bird spreads its wings, just a little, then tucks them back in, as if the gesture means something.
I press harder against the glass, my nose almost touching. “Are you here to spy on me? Or just to mock?”
The bird on the left lets out a low croak, the sound muffled by the glass.
I’m not sure why, but I feel safer with them here, like their presence is a shield against the cold and the dark. Maybe it’s because they remind me of the clearing, of the men who found me, who called me theirs. It’s like I can’t separate the men from the ravens or the ravens from the men.
But the memory of the men sends a shiver down my spine.
I picture them as they were. Shade, all black and shadow, his voice a command.
Bran, gentle and golden, with a smile that threatened to break my heart.
Onyx, quiet and careful, but always watching.
Talon, ferocious, his laughter a weapon.
Rune, with eyes like silver and words to match.
Sable, who never stopped moving, never stopped smiling.
Grim, the darkest of them all, the one who haunted my sleep and made me wish I could dream forever.
I see them now in the faces of these birds, their shapes a kind of memory, a joke only I’m in on.
I shake my head, trying to clear it.
“You’re not them,” I say, but the words are hollow. “You can’t be.”
The birds don’t answer, but the way they lean in, the way they never break their stare, it’s like they’re waiting for me to say something important.
“Are you…watching over me for them?” I try, feeling stupid and childish. “Or are you just waiting for me to feed you again?”
The center raven blinks, slow and deliberate.
A laugh escapes me, brittle and strange. “Well, you’ll be waiting a while. He’s not going to let me go.”
I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the cold floor, my knees hugged to my chest. The birds follow my movement, three heads turning in sync.
I stare up at them, letting the silence stretch.