Chapter 19 #3
I pull myself from my thoughts and warily walk over to the circle made of my dried blood and drop down beside it, softly stroking my fingers over the markings. “Korithax, I summon you.” The whisper scrapes out of my throat so quietly I’m sure even Aran didn’t hear it.
My fingers tingle and my eyes widen at the sensation. “I’m here with you, little flower. I’m always here.”
A shiver runs down my spine as his voice invades my mind again. It brushes the old bond, the place it used to tug, just like the way it used to. A phantom ache lingers like a limb cut away. I quickly swipe a tear from my cheek with the heel of my hand and shove myself upright, clearing my throat.
“I’m going to charge my phone and call Ezra,” I say to Aran, moving over to where I had thrown my belongings in a fit of despair all those months ago.
Memories flood from that day. People staring, Jason’s harsh words at the bleachers.
Phoebe and her little gang of bitches getting me fired from work.
The dominoes falling one after the other until I called for Korithax.
In the grand scheme of things, what happened back then, feels like nothing compared to what I’m facing now.
I’d do anything to go back and be called a lying whore whilst stressing out over exams and cheer routines.
Instead, I’m facing a war, my husband’s dead, my best friend too, and so many other lives have been snuffed out.
Being called a whore would be the least of my worries now.
I internally scoff. Life comes at you fast, I guess.
I grab the phone and plug it into the charger by the kitchen counter.
Electricity buzzes through my ears like a bumble bee.
Everything is so much louder when you have immortal hearing.
No wonder Korithax hated it here. As I wait for the phone to charge, my eyes drift towards my bedroom door and I instantly freeze, knowing exactly what’s on the other side.
I fidget with my hands that are now profusely sweating, as I stare.
“Get a grip, Daisy Sandoval,” I mutter to myself.
I debate with myself for a whole five seconds before I head towards the door, my feet carrying me forwards before my mind can fully be on board.
I stop with my hand on the doorknob, fingers curling around the cool metal as my pulse thuds unevenly in my throat.
On a shaky breath, I push the door open slowly.
My bedroom greets me exactly as I left it, frozen in time the same way everything here is.
The curtains are half-drawn, letting thin ribbons of winter light spill across the carpet.
Just like everywhere else, dust lies over every surface in a fine, undisturbed layer—the dresser, the nightstand, the framed photos I can’t bring myself to look at just yet.
My bed is unmade, blankets twisted like I simply got up one morning and decided to never come back.
Which I guess, is exactly what happened.
And there, just where I left it on the bedside table, is the gift Korithax gave me for Christmas.
The glowing orb from Solara. Soft golden light pulses inside it, warm and steady.
My breath catches at the sight. I cross the room slowly, as though moving too fast might make it disappear.
When I reach the bed, I sink down onto the edge, the mattress dipping beneath my weight.
The scent of my old laundry detergent lingers faintly in the sheets, fighting its way through the smell of damp and mould.
Carefully, I pick up the orb with trembling hands.
I smile down at the shifting scenery inside, colours melting into each other in a way that feels impossible.
I tap it gently, the colours shifting and reforming into something new.
I tap it again and again. Each time, the hues changing to different times of day that hold the sun.
Sunrise, golden hour, sunset. For a moment, the room disappears entirely.
The dust, the silence, the ache clawing through my ribs.
All of it fades beneath the soft glow spilling over my hands and lap. It’s beautiful.
“I told him to get you that, you know.” Aran’s voice drifts from the doorway, quiet enough to not shatter the fragile bubble of calm that surrounds me.
I look up at him, the orb casting soft golden light across my face. “It really is beautiful,” I say softly, my voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”
“Of course.” He leans lightly against the doorframe, watching me with a small, tired smile. “I knew he’d have to try and sweeten you up to marry his moody ass.”
A small laugh escapes me before I can stop it. It’s thin and fragile, but it’s real. It feels strange in my throat to laugh in a place that holds so many bittersweet memories.
“You knew that he wanted to marry me?”
Aran opens his mouth, then closes it again. He pauses for just a second too long, and I frown as I watch something like panic flicker across his face. It’s gone almost as soon as it appears. “Um… it was my idea,” he says finally.
My eyes practically bulge out of my head. “What?”
He pushes off the doorframe and steps into the room, moving slowly as if he’s afraid he’s going to trigger an unwanted reaction from me.
“He was given a selection of brides,” he explains carefully.
“Political matches. Powerful alliances. But I knew ultimately all of them would try and kill him.” Mhm. That sounds about right.
He continues, his voice softening as he looks at me. “I knew you were destined for greatness, and I knew you were the girl for him.”
“How?” My voice comes out sharper than I intended, but it’s confusion and hurt curling under the words. Why would anyone think a mortal girl from a tiny apartment, and a broken life, was the perfect match for the future King of Hell?
Aran pauses his movements a few steps away from the bed.
I watch him visibly swallow, like it’s almost painful to keep whatever it is in.
“I… I can’t tell you, Daisy. Not yet.” Something in my chest sinks.
“But I promise you,” he adds quickly, his voice almost pleading now, “when I can, I will. Please, just trust me.”
He takes another step closer. The orb pulses softly in my hands, bathing both of us in warm Solaran light as I stare at him, unsure of which feels more fragile right now—the glass sphere cradled in my palms, or me.
I swallow the lump rising in my throat, and nod once.
I do trust Aran, probably more than anyone else.
But it still hurts that there are walls between us.
Secrets he doesn’t feel like he can share with me, even now, after everything.
“I wouldn’t keep it from you if I didn’t have to,” he adds in a soft, reassuring tone. “I promise, everything, and I mean everything, will be revealed as soon as I’m able to.”
My phone dinging from the kitchen pulls me from the conversation, and I spring up, pushing past Aran, and run to it. Text after text, missed calls, social media notifications, all flood my screen.
Dad: Hey kiddo. Hope u had a good Christmas. Can I lend $50?
Dad: Daze?
Dad: Come on kiddo, dnt ignore me.
Dad: Wow. Ok.
On and on, begging for money, being angry, apologising, and repeat. But not one text showing concern that he hadn’t heard from his only daughter in months. Typical.
I open the group text thread, seeing several messages from Ezra, and my heart pounds in my chest.
Ezra: Please. Bring me back.
Ezra: Daisy. Please.
Ezra: I need you.
Ezra: Fuck. I miss you both so much.
Ezra: I dropped out of college. I can’t do this without you both.
Ezra: I love you guys.
Panic surges up my throat like bile so quickly, it becomes hot and suffocating.
My mind latches instantly onto the worst possible explanation for that final message.
Something happened. Something has to have happened.
Ezra wouldn’t just send that text then vanish.
My hands shake as I tap his contact, the screen blurring for a second before I manage to slam my thumb against the call button hard enough, I’m surprised the screen didn’t crack.
I press the phone to my ear, already pacing.
It starts ringing. Each tone drills straight through my skull.
I pace the length of the room, then back again, my shoes scuffling across the floor the only sound. My free hand twists into the fabric of my shirt, my knuckles bleached white as my breaths come in too fast, too shallow. Come on, Ez. Please.
The ringing continues, feeling way too long.
A thousand images crash through my mind in rapid succession—Ezra laughing, Ezra crying, Ezra standing beside me at the worst moments of my life, glitter sparkling on his ivory skin and defiance in his eyes.
The thought of that light gone, snuffed out like everyone else, makes my stomach drop so violently, I have to brace a hand against the wall.
“Pick up,” I whisper, the words breaking apart on my lips. “Please just pick up.” The call keeps ringing. Every second stretches my sanity thin, and brittle.
My heart hammers so hard it hurts—a frantic, painful rhythm that fills my ears, drowning out everything else. For one terrifying moment, I’m convinced this is it—that the silence on the other end is the only answer I’m ever going to get. That I’m already too late.
Just as I’m sure it’s about to go to voicemail, the call connects.
“Hello?”
Ezra’s voice comes through the line, thin and fractured, like it’s been scraped raw from too much crying.
It doesn’t sound like him at all. There’s no brightness, no sparkle, no dramatic flair.
Just exhaustion and something hollow underneath that makes my chest ache.
For a split second, I can’t speak. He’s alive. He’s actually alive.
I burst into a sob before I can stop it, loud and ugly and completely uncontrollable. “Ezra.” Silence from the other side deafens me, and I panic. Did the call drop? Did he hang up? Did I imagine— “Ezra. It’s me. It’s Daisy.”