44. Betrayal
Chapter forty-four
Betrayal
WWWOOOORRR!
WWWOOOORRR!
WWWOOOORRR!
The sharp, rhythmic screech shatters the silence, yanking me from sleep like a physical blow. My heart pounds as I scramble upright, the relentless wail reverberating through my skull, unlike anything I have heard before, high-pitched, grating, pulsing with urgency. WWWOOOORRR!
Over and over, drilling into my mind, making it impossible to think.
“What the hell—?” I mutter, though no one is there to answer me.
Fumbling in the dark, I yank on my clothes, my fingers working faster than my sluggish, sleep-heavy thoughts.
Whatever this is, it can’t be good. The gods-awful sound alone tells me that. My hands move automatically, securing weapons at my sides, slipping a blade into my boot. Prepared or not, I’m not about to walk out unarmed.
I throw open my door, stepping straight into chaos.
Fae flood the halls, a frantic mass of bodies surging forward, some still fastening buckles or shoving on boots, others gripping weapons with white-knuckled hands. The air buzzes with shouts, the pounding of feet matching the erratic rhythm of my pulse.
I push into the throng, trying to find Zander or Ash, but the press of bodies makes it nearly impossible to navigate. I have no choice but to move with the tide, jostled and shoved as we spill into the main corridor.
The moment we break free into the open courtyard, the icy slap of rain hits me full force.
I gasp at the shock of it, shoving wet strands of hair from my face as I scan the chaos before me.
Fae move with purpose despite the downpour, their movements sharp and efficient. Orders are being shouted, warriors arming themselves, the entire stronghold coming alive in the cold, rain-soaked darkness.
And at the center of it all, Zander and Ash stand like unshaken pillars, directing the madness.
I hurry toward them, my boots splashing through puddles, leathers already soaked and clinging to my skin. They are drenched too, but neither seems to care.
“What’s going on?” I call over the storm and the lingering wail of the alarm.
Zander doesn’t even glance at me, too busy barking orders, his voice cutting through the chaos as Fae rush to obey.
It is Ash who finally answers, his tone grim.
“The wards are down.”
I freeze mid-step. “What?” The word escapes me in a breathless screech. No. That isn’t possible.
“How?” I demand, my voice rising in disbelief.
“How is that even possible?”
Ash shakes his head, rain dripping from his light hair. “I don’t know. But it can’t be good.”
“Has this ever happened before?” I press, needing to know if the wards are weaker than I thought.
I turn to Zander, desperate for more, but his only response is a clipped, “No,” before he continues issuing commands, every movement effortless, as if he has been preparing for this moment his entire life.
Shock roots me in place, my mind racing. The wards are down. That means we are exposed, completely vulnerable. If anyone is looking, they can see us now. Find us. Attack us. Worse, every defense that relied on the wards' magic is now useless.
We are sitting ducks.
I swallow hard, forcing the rising panic down, but the feeling lingers, crawling beneath my skin. The rain shows no sign of easing, soaking through my clothes, and still, the alarm screams in the background, a shrill reminder of just how screwed we are.
Zander’s voice cuts through the storm like a blade.
“Will someone turn off the gods-damned alarm so I can hear myself think?”
Moments later, the alarm cuts off, but the overwhelming noise remains: the pounding rain, the hurried footsteps, the clipped orders being shouted across the stronghold. The chaos hasn’t lessened, only shifted. And despite the absence of the alarm, the tension inside me refuses to settle.
Zander doesn’t waste a second. The moment the alarm falls silent, he raises his voice above the clamor, commanding the attention of every soldier within earshot.
“We don’t know what caused the wards to fall,” he says, his tone sharp and unwavering. “Which means we assume the worst. We are exposed. Vulnerable. We move as if an attack is imminent.”
The gathered Fae nod, their expressions grim but focused. They don’t need to be told twice.
“Ash,” Zander continues, turning to him, “triple the perimeter watch. I want scouts posted at every high vantage point within a mile of the stronghold. If so much as a twig snaps, I want to know about it.”
Ash gives a firm nod before striding off, already shouting names and orders as he disappears into the crowd.
Zander’s gaze flicks to me. “Lyra, I need you with me. We’re checking the lines.”
I don’t argue. Without hesitation, I fall in step beside him as he moves through the stronghold, his pace quick but controlled. Everybody we pass is armed, their faces hardened with the weight of what this can mean.
“How do we even check the wards?” I ask, my voice low but urgent. “They’re gone, Zander. Just . . . gone.”
“That’s exactly why we need to see it for ourselves,” he says. “We need to know if they were broken from the outside or if something failed within.”
That thought sends a chill through me. If an external force took down the wards, then whoever did it knew exactly what they were doing. But if something failed from within . . . I don’t let my mind wander too far down that path.
We reach the outer edge of the stronghold, where the wards should be. I have crossed this threshold countless times before, always feeling the shift of magic, the faint press of its protection. Now, there is nothing. Just empty air where a powerful barrier should stand.
Zander stops, his jaw tight as he scans the forest beyond. The darkness feels heavier, more menacing, without the wards keeping it at bay.
I extend my senses, searching for any lingering trace of magic, but it is like trying to grasp at smoke. The wards aren’t weakened. They are completely gone. “This doesn’t make sense,” I mutter. “Even if someone attacked them, there should be some trace left behind. Magic doesn’t just disappear.”
Zander’s expression darkens. “Unless it was taken.”
A cold shudder runs down my spine.
Before I can respond, one of the scouts comes sprinting toward us from the tree line, his face pale. “You need to see this,” he pants. “Now.”
Zander and I exchange a glance before following him into the woods, our hands already drifting toward our weapons.
The scout urgently leads us deeper into the forest. I can hear his breath coming fast and uneven, but he doesn’t slow.
We push past the thick undergrowth, the damp scent of rain and earth heavy in the air.
My hand hovers over the hilt of my dagger, and every nerve in my body is on high alert.
The further we go, the stronger the feeling of wrongness becomes, like a whisper at the edge of my mind, warning me to turn back.
Then we see it.
A large section of the forest ahead is dead.
The trees stand like skeletal remains, their bark blackened and peeling.
The ground beneath them is dry and cracked despite the rain still falling around us.
But it isn’t just decay, it is unnatural, as if the life has been stolen rather than simply withering away.
Zander stops beside me, his face grim. “What in the gods’ names . . .?”
The scout swallows hard. “This wasn’t here yesterday.”
I step forward cautiously, my boots crunching over brittle leaves. The moment I cross into the deadened space, a wave of something foul presses against me. The air feels wrong, heavy, as though a presence is lingering just out of sight.
Symbols are carved into the trunks of the dead trees, strange markings, ones I don’t recognize.
They spiral and curve in jagged, almost erratic patterns, like they were carved in haste or desperation.
Some are shallow scratches, while others are deep gouges, seeping with something dark and tar-like.
Magic. But not the kind I want anything to do with.
I turn to Zander. “This isn’t just decay. This is a spell.”
His jaw tightens, his eyes scanning the symbols with a calculating look. “Which means someone was here. Someone powerful enough to rip the magic from the wards and leave this behind.”
A sharp gust of wind sweeps through the trees, rattling the dead branches.
“We need to get back,” Zander says, his voice low. “Now.”
I don’t argue.
Whatever happened here, whatever did this, is still out there. And if we don’t figure out what it wants soon, we might not be able to stop it.
The morning light creeps over the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of gold and gray, but it does nothing to warm the unease curling in my stomach. The air is thick with tension, the kind that settles deep into your bones and makes your heart beat a little too fast.
Zander has positioned the soldiers in careful formations, some tucked behind the stronghold’s stone walls, others stationed just outside in calculated lines.
Their weapons are drawn, eyes fixed ahead.
The rain has slowed to a drizzle, mist curling low over the clearing, giving the world an eerie, hushed stillness.
Ash stands beside me, silent for once, his fingers flexing over the hilt of his blade. Zander is on my other side, his stance unshaken, but I can see the sharp focus in his gaze, the way his eyes flick over every shadow in the distance, every inch of movement from the trees beyond.
I stand at the very front, my body rigid, hands clenched at my sides as I scan the tree line up the hill. Nothing moves. No birds stir from the branches, no wind rustles the leaves. It is too quiet.
Something or someone is waiting.
Every second that passes makes my skin crawl, the weight of unseen eyes pressing in from the darkness between the trees. Something is out there. Watching. Measuring.
I swallow hard, forcing my voice to steady. “Do you feel that?”
Zander nods once. “They’re close.”
Ash exhales sharply. “Then why aren’t they attacking?”
I have no answer.
The silence stretches, unnatural. My pulse pounds in my ears, my breath shallow as I tighten my grip on my dagger.