Chapter Twenty - Eight
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
SAGE
Ican't stay in this bed.
Not after that dream. That memory.
Even now, my skin still feels too hot, my lungs too tight, my fingers trembling with the phantom sensation of smoke curling around them.
I exhale shakily and push the blankets away, carefully swinging my legs over the edge of the bed.
The air is cool against my bare skin, my silk sleep shorts and camisole doing little to protect me from the lingering chill. I consider looking for a robe, but I'm not planning to see anyone, and besides, Elias said I could go to the library whenever I wanted.
I leave my room quietly, hesitantly, padding through the dimly lit halls. The estate is silent, the kind of silence that feels heavy. Like the walls themselves are watching.
When I reach the library, I pause before gently pushing open the heavy doors. Towering bookshelves, flickering chandeliers, the scent of old parchment and ink. It's the only place in this mansion that feels... comforting.
Familiar.
I move toward the nearest shelf, trailing my fingers lightly along the spines of books, scanning the gilded titles.
Some are in languages I don't recognize. Some are in English but still don't make sense.
I pull one out carefully.
The Forsaken Order: Warlocks Who Defied the Blood Oath.
I feel a small flutter of curiosity.
I slide it back and select another.
The Seven Bloodlines: Tracing the Ancestry of High Magic.
I tilt my head slightly. That sounds important.
I make a mental note to come back to that one.
Moving deeper into the library, I let my fingers skim across more titles.
Soulcraft: The Art of Harnessing Human Essence.
I wrap my arms around myself. That sounds a little too close to what I saw in my dream.
I turn away, heading toward the far shelves where the books seem older, dustier, untouched.
And then—something catches my eye.
A book with no title on the spine.
The leather cover is deep burgundy, almost black in the dim light, and the edges are frayed, as if it's been read a thousand times over.
I hesitate.
Then I reach out and carefully pull it from the shelf.
There's an inscription on the front, barely visible in the flickering light.
The Covenant of Fire: Witches, Warlocks, and the Ritual That Binds Them.
My pulse quickens.
I stare at it, holding it gently in my hands.
Because this—this might have answers.
I step back toward the nearest reading table, heart fluttering, fingers tentative.
And then I slowly, carefully, open the book.
The book is heavy in my lap, the pages thick, old, filled with handwritten annotations in the margins. The ink seeps into the parchment like whispers of the past, as if whoever wrote this was trying to share something important.
I bite my lip, running my fingers lightly over the faded words.
The Covenant of Fire. The Ritual. The binding between witches and warlocks.
I don't know what I expect to find here—understanding, perhaps, or maybe even a way to make sense of whatever is happening to me.
But before I can read further, something catches my eye.
A shift in the shadows.
A door.
Tucked between towering shelves, barely visible behind an overgrowth of ivy creeping along the stone wall, is a set of double doors made of dark wood and iron. They don't belong here—not in a place filled with books and dust and quiet things.
But the faint glow of moonlight through the glass panels draws my attention.
Slowly, I rise from my seat, reluctantly leaving the book behind.
Each step toward the door feels... important. Significant.
I reach out, fingers brushing over the cool iron handle. It shouldn't be unlocked.
But it is.
With a gentle push, the doors swing open.
And I step into a different world.
The garden is unlike anything I've seen before.
It stretches endlessly, winding stone paths lead through meticulously kept hedges, twisting into intricate mazes of wild roses and creeping vines.
Statues stand between the foliage—gods, monsters, figures frozen in time. A marble woman stands with a serpent curled around her wrist, her blank eyes staring skyward. Another figure, a warlock, perhaps, holds an open book, his face chipped, weathered by time.
This place feels ancient.
I walk deeper, drawn forward by something I don't understand.
The scent of night-blooming jasmine lingers in the air, mixing with the damp earth beneath my bare feet. The wind carries something distant, something almost... familiar.
And then I see it.
The edge.
At first, I think it's just the end of the garden—a break in the land, the rolling hills sloping downward into the night. But the closer I get, the more I realize...
It isn't natural.
There's a shimmer, faint but unmistakable. A ripple in the air, like the shimmer of heat over pavement, but colder, tinged with something that makes my skin prickle.
I stop.
I know what this is.
A ward. A boundary.
I lift my hand slowly, watching the way the air seems to pulse before me.
It's keeping something out.
Or, more likely, keeping me in.
I swallow, my heartbeat suddenly loud in my ears.
I have a choice.
I can turn around. I can go back to my room, pretend I never saw this, pretend I don't know that I'm trapped.
Or—
I can try to cross the threshold.
My fingers tremble as I reach forward.
And then—I move.
One step. Then another.
The moment my foot lands beyond the glimmering boundary, the air shifts—like the breath before a storm.
And then?—
Malachi materializes in front of me.
I stumble back, a small gasp escaping my lips.
His form is perfectly still, perfectly controlled, but his dark eyes?—
They burn.
"Going somewhere, Sage?"
His voice is calm. Too calm.
I freeze.
I don't know what to say.
Because I just tried to leave.
And I have the sinking feeling that Malachi Black is not the kind of man who lets what belongs to him simply walk away.