Chapter 42 - Echoes That Don't Die
The scream doesn't belong to the night.
It doesn't belong to this palace, these walls, this life.
It's too sharp too old.
I wake like I've been stabbed, lungs dragging air in violently as my body moves before thought can catch up. The fire in the hearth has burned low, casting the room in fractured orange shadows that stretch and shrink like living things.
Another sound breaks the silence.
A sob.
Small. Broken. Desperate.
My heart slams once hard enough that it hurts.
"Isabella?" I call, already moving.
I don't hear an answer. I don't hear breath. Only the sound of fabric brushing stone and something someone whispering frantically under their breath.
I round the bed and see her.
She's in the corner of the room, crouched like an animal trapped in a snare, knees pulled tight to her chest, arms wrapped around herself so fiercely her knuckles are white.
Her hair has come loose from its braid, dark strands clinging to her damp cheeks.
Her shoulders shake violently, as if she's trying to outrun something that's already caught her.
My first thought is blood.
My second is pain.
I scan her quickly her hands, her legs, the floor around her but there's no red, no wound, no sign of injury.
And yet she looks like she's dying.
"I didn't do it," she whispers.
The words barely register at first.
"I didn't do it," she says again, louder now, voice cracking like ice under weight. "I swear—I swear I didn't—"
I drop to one knee in front of her, slow, deliberate, careful not to startle her further.
"Isabella," I say, keeping my voice even. "It's me. Look at me."
She doesn't.
Her eyes are open, but they aren't here. They're locked on something far away something only she can see. Tears spill down her face unchecked, her breathing coming too fast, too shallow.
"I loved him," she sobs. "I would never—please—please don't—"
"What are you talking about?" I ask quietly. "Who, Isabella?"
Her head jerks violently from side to side.
I reach for her instinctively, my hand barely brushing her sleeve
"No—no—don't touch me—"
She screams.
It's not loud. It's worse than loud.
It's pure panic.
She recoils violently, scrambling backward until her spine hits the stone wall with a dull thud. Her breath turns ragged, each inhale stuttering like her lungs are forgetting how to work. Her eyes finally snap to mine, wide and wild
And empty of recognition.
She doesn't know me.
"I didn't poison anyone!" she cries. "I didn't—don't let them—please—I'm innocent—"
My name means nothing to her.
My voice means nothing.
I've faced armies without fear. I've stood before death unflinching.
This this terrifies me.
"Isabella," I say again, sharper now, trying to cut through whatever has her.
She doesn't hear it.
Her body trembles harder, like it's tearing itself apart from the inside. Then, suddenly, her strength gives out.
She slumps forward.
For a horrifying moment, I think she's dead.
I catch her just in time, lowering her to the floor, cradling her carefully. Her body is burning feverish beneath my hands and her pulse races so fast it feels wrong.
She's still crying.
Even unconscious, her lips move.
"I didn't do it," she whispers.
Something inside my chest cracks open.
I sit there on the cold stone, her weight against me, afraid to move, afraid to let go, afraid to touch her too much or not enough. Every instinct I have is screaming for action, for violence, for control
But there's nothing to fight.
I brush damp hair away from her face, my touch feather-light now, watching for any sign that I'm making it worse. She doesn't flinch this time. Her breathing remains shallow but steadier.
I pull her closer, careful, protective, shielding her from a world that has already taken too much from her. If whatever is haunting her thinks it can take her from me
It will learn how wrong it is.
I rest my forehead against her hair, my grip tightening just slightly, anchoring her here. With me. Now.
Her breath trembles against my chest, uneven but present. I stay like that for a heartbeat longer than necessary, as if the act of stillness alone might keep her from slipping back into whatever nightmare has claimed her.
Then the fear sharpens into something else.
Confusion.
"Lucian," I say quietly at first.
Nothing.
My jaw tightens.
"Lucian," I repeat, louder now, the word carrying command, threat, and familiarity all at once.
The air shifts.
It's subtle no flash, no sound but the shadows near the hearth ripple, folding in on themselves like ink dropped into water. A shape peels free from the darkness, solidifying into a familiar silhouette.
Lucian stands there a moment later, barefoot, sleeves half-rolled, hair a mess like he's been pulled from sleep or something far worse.
He looks at me on the floor.
Then at Isabella in my arms.
His expression changes instantly.
"Oh."
That's it.
Just oh.
The word hits me like an insult.
"Oh?" I snap, lifting my head, fury burning hot and fast. "Oh what, Lucian?"
He crouches slowly, uncharacteristically quiet, eyes scanning her face not clinically, not magically, but with something closer to sorrow.
"Oh," he repeats, softer this time. "That explains it."
I feel my control slipping.
"She was screaming," I say, each word clipped. "She didn't know me. She kept saying she was innocent like she was standing in front of a fucking executioner. So unless you plan on being useful, don't speak in riddles."
Lucian straightens, rubbing the back of his neck.
"She's not hurt," he says.
"That's not an answer."
"She's not dying either."
"Lucian."
He sighs, long and heavy, like someone who has been dreading this conversation.
"She's experiencing the side effects of time displacement."
The words don't land.
I stare at him.
"...The what?"
He grimaces. "Time travel. Soul displacement. Temporal recursion. Pick your favorite terrifying phrase."
My grip on Isabella tightens instinctively.
"You're telling me she's having nightmares because of magic?"
"No," he says gently. "I'm telling you she's breaking because of memory."
I shake my head once. "Explain. Slowly. Before I decide to kill you ."
Lucian's gaze flicks back to Isabella. He kneels this time, closer, careful not to touch her.
"The mind is a very fragile thing," he says. "People think strength is about endurance about surviving pain. It's not. Strength is about integration. About how the mind files trauma away so it doesn't tear you apart."
"When you break someone," he continues, "truly break them strip away safety, trust, identity it doesn't heal cleanly. It scars. It warps. And even when the body survives, the mind remembers everything it needed to survive."
I know this.
Too well.
Lucian exhales. "Now imagine taking that mind—those scars, those memories, that terror and ripping the soul out of its timeline. Dropping it back into the same body. The same halls. The same faces. The same power structures."
My stomach sinks.
"You didn't remove the triggers," he says quietly. "You multiplied them."
I look down at her.
At the way her fingers twitch even in sleep, like she's still bracing for impact.
"In her past," he clarifies. "Or one of them. However you want to define it. Accused. Condemned. Publicly. Brutally. Her mind remembers standing alone while everyone she trusted watched."
The room feels colder.
"When they put her back here," he says, "they gave her a crown and told her she was safe. But her mind doesn't believe in safety anymore."
My jaw clenches hard enough to ache.
"She's strong," I say flatly.
Lucian nods. "That's the problem."
I glare at him.
"The stronger someone is," he continues, "the longer they hold before they break. But when they do—" He snaps his fingers softly. "It's catastrophic."
I look back at Isabella, at the faint crease between her brows, the ghost of fear still clinging to her expression.
"She relived it," I murmur.
"Yes."
"While awake."
"Yes."
"She's been holding it together," he adds. "Ruling. Fighting. Rewriting fate itself. But eventually the mind demands its debt."
I drag a hand through my hair, anger flaring not at Lucian, not at her, but at the universe itself.
"So what do I do?" I demand. "Because if the answer is 'wait,' I'll burn something down."
Lucian huffs quietly. "Of course you will."
He considers her for a long moment.
"You ground her," he says finally. "You keep her present. You don't let her drown in the past, and you don't force her to carry the future alone. And when she breaks " his eyes meet mine "you don't let her do it by herself."
"And if it gets worse?"
Lucian's smile is sad. "It might."