Chapter 13 #2
“An abomination skulking in sacred halls! And you–” His gnarled finger jabs at Xavier. “–to walk beside her without a collar on her throat? Have you no shame?”
I freeze. It’s not the first time my hair had earned me suspicion—it’s why I religiously keep my hood up—but never here, never in the Memosyne. My jaw clenches, words rising sharp and hot. “Careful with your tongue, old man–”
But Xavier cuts across me once again, smooth as ever, his voice low and warning. “That’s enough,” he snarls at the man. “You’ll mind your words in my presence.” He steps forward, the picture of chivalry, as though I’m some fragile creature in need of protection.
My hands curl into fists. The old man’s insult doesn’t sting half as much as Xavier’s interference. Again. Always speaking for me, as though my voice carries less weight.
“No,” I snap, my glare shifting to Xavier. “I don’t need defending.” My raised voice cuts through the Archive’s stillness as I turn back to the old man. “You dare mistake me for something you fear? Call me abomination again, and you’ll learn the consequences of insulting me firsthand.”
The old man staggers back a step, startled by the fury in my tone. For a heartbeat, the chamber thrums with the weight of my anger, and even Xavier seems taken aback.
I tilt my chin high, every syllable measured. “Leave. Now.”
The man’s lips press thin, but he mutters something under his breath and retreats, his steps uneven and hurried, vanishing between the towering stacks.
The silence that follows is heavier than before. I’ve had enough of being spoken over. Enough of being treated as though I need saving. I round on Xavier next, trying my best to remain calm, but I’m so sick of him constantly speaking for me in the name of chivalry. It needs to stop.
“I have a voice, Xavier. You know that right?” I say incredulously, throwing my hands in the air in exasperation.
“Octavia–”
“No, stop and listen to me. You are a good man, but I don’t need you to fight for me.
I know you’re only trying to help, but I don’t want it.
You’ve seen me suffer at the hands of misguided men and have taken it upon yourself to defend me, and whilst I appreciate the gesture, I don’t need a white knight.
Some women like that, sure, but I’m not one of them.
You assumed what I needed instead of actually asking me.
My bones may be broken and my mind fraying, but my will is unbreakable, and I will stand my ground and fight as well as any man.
You may think me weak, but it is overcoming my weaknesses that make me even stronger.
Never underestimate someone who has been dragged repeatedly into the darkness and clawed their way back every time. ”
This is not the first conversation I’ve had like this with men, and I’m certain it won’t be the last. But to his credit—unlike others who immediately start defending themselves and get angry—he nods and holds his chin high, a tinge of red on his cheeks the only sign of his embarrassment.
“You’re right, I didn’t ask you,” he concedes. “I see it now, forgive me. I’ve always been protective of you, it’s in my nature, but I never considered whether you would want that from me. I just assumed you would.”
I place my hand on his shoulder and his smile returns, knowing how much the gesture means due to my hatred of being touched.
“Thank you for trying to protect me, but from now on, what I would like is for you to stand strong by my side and let me fight my own battles. Is that okay?”
“Absolutely. Just know I have your back should you ever need it,” he offers, and I manage to crack a smile.
“Likewise,” I return, and he claps a hand to my shoulder too, giving it a slight squeeze.
“For the record, though, I have never once thought of you as weak,” he says quietly, and a small weight lifts off my shoulders that I didn’t realise I’d been carrying.
A sniffle sounds in my mind.
“That was so beautiful,” Stryx cries, and I turn away from Xavier quickly so he doesn’t spot me cringe. It’s a relief to set the record straight, but I don’t want this to turn into some sort of ‘lovey dovey’ moment—that’s never been our style.
“Come on, Oc, let’s see where that librarian friend of yours has got to–”
“Nu-uh, no way,” I cut in. “What did you just call me?”
He laughs. “Come on, don’t ruin a nice moment.”
“My name is Octavia, if you could possibly struggle all the way to the end,” I say with my hands on my hips, trying to smother my smirk.
“It’s just a nickname!” he argues, trying to hold back his laughter.
“Okay then, by that logic shall I start calling you ‘Xay–Xay’?”
His face scrunches in disgust and he throws his hands up in surrender. “Okay, fair enough, you’ve made your point, Octavia.”
I give him a smug smile before pushing past him playfully and heading towards the central desk. “Let’s figure out what in the Voyd is taking Cyril so long.”
My smile slips from my face and the further we walk, the more my senses start to overwhelm me, an odd sensation prickling up my spine.
The Archives have gone too still.
Doom slowly presses in on me, but I can’t tell whether to trust my gut, or if it’s just my Shadow’s presence making me so tense.
Turn left.
I halt abruptly at a junction in the stacks, causing Xavier to nearly walk into me.
“What’s wrong? Forget your way?” he chuckles as he strides past me, misunderstanding my predicament. I remain still as the Shadow inches closer.
Turn left, or your bones will break.
I swallow hard.
“Octavia?” Stryx’s small voice comes to me, distracting me enough that I can just about stamp down on the dread rising within me. I shake my head to try and rid myself of the horrible demands and straighten my shoulders, forcing myself to turn right.
“I’m okay,” I whisper back to her, wishing to believe it.
I try to block out the oppressive sense of doom and focus on putting one step in front of the other. Cyril vanished into the restricted stores over an hour ago, promising to fetch what we need. The man lives for rules and order; tardiness isn’t his vice. I need to make sure everything is okay.
Xavier looks back at my concerned face with a frown, arms folded, pretending calm. “Don’t panic, he’s old. Old men move slowly.” But his voice lacks conviction.
I nod unconvincingly as I step up to his side, but before either of us can speak further, a raw, panicked scream tears through the silence.
We both share a wide-eyed glance before launching ourselves into a run.
Dust rains from the high shelves as though the building itself is shuddering at the sound.
My knees and ankles protest painfully at the impact as I push myself as fast as I can go, but I don’t have time to focus on that when someone could be in trouble.
I run my finger across the runes on my ring repetitively, the last dregs of its magic leeching into me and taking the edge off my pain so I can think more clearly.
My Shadow keeps pace with us, though, a constant agonising manifestation of my growing panic.
The labyrinth of back storerooms stretch out before us behind the central desk, narrow corridors carved between stacks of forgotten tomes and relics swaddled in cobwebs.
The air is thick with dust, every shadow a possible threat, and my heart pounds with a rhythm that matches my breathless thoughts.
Please don’t let this be another body. Not here. Not again.
A gurgling, choking sound leads us weaving deeper until the corridors open into a cramped musty chamber, and a silent scream catches in my throat as I skid to a stop.
Cyril lies sprawled across the floor in the centre, his spectacles cracked beside him, blood already soaking the pages scattered around his body. His eyes are glassy, fixed in a permanent expression of terror.
And standing over him, knife still slick with crimson, is Riven Ashfell.