Chapter 31 Make Decisions While Angry
(Your Best Ideas Happen This Way)
Arabella
I stormed out of the apartment, my feet carrying me faster than my thoughts could catch up.
The God Spire’s corridors were mercifully empty at this hour.
Most villains, it seemed, weren’t morning people.
I passed a few bleary-eyed servants and one vampire who hissed at me before realizing who I was and scurrying away.
I slowed down. My fingers trailed along the smooth, polished bone of the walls as I walked, feeling the faint hum of ancient magic beneath my touch.
I had no destination in mind. All I knew was that I needed to be away from Kazimir and his half-hearted apologies.
Away from the memory of his voice asking if we should be having “angry hate sex” right now.
Of all the idiotic, insensitive, completely Kazimir things to say.
Men. Dark lords. Whatever.
The worst part was that some traitorous piece of me had briefly considered it. Angry sex with Kazimir was… well, memorable, to say the least. But no. I had standards, and apparently, I needed to remind myself of them more often.
The Heirloom pushed against my skull. It seemed to sense my agitation, sending cool waves of energy down my spine.
I paused at a window overlooking the impossible architecture of the Spire.
Little creatures that resembled winged mice had built a nest on the outside window ledge, their tiny claws scratching against the bone as they wove together bits of stolen silk and parchment.
“Stupid, arrogant, emotionally stunted villain,” I muttered.
A passing goblin in a tailored suit gave me a wide berth, clearly assuming I was talking to him. I ignored him, too consumed by my own thoughts.
The truth was, beneath my anger, I understood Kazimir better than I wanted to admit.
His childhood had been a nightmare of abuse disguised as love.
His mother had carved runes into his bones while telling him it was necessary.
His father had been a tyrant that Kaz had disposed of himself.
Of course he’d be wary of admitting feelings, of making himself vulnerable.
But understanding didn’t erase the hurt. It didn’t change the fact that he’d tried to compel me.
And it didn’t change the fact that some childish, wounded part of me needed to hear the words from him.
Our ritual with the Alchemist wasn’t scheduled until later. I had hours to kill, and spending them anywhere near Kazimir seemed like a recipe for disaster—or at least property damage.
What I needed was a distraction. Something productive to do with all this restless energy.
To help me regain control over at least one aspect of my life.
I could explore the Spire, perhaps visit the infamous Academia of Malice that Griffin had mentioned.
Since he no longer had urgent Heirloom research, he was taking Sebastian with him there today.
But I didn’t want to be around people I knew.
I could go shopping in the bizarre marketplace I’d glimpsed on our arrival. I could find a quiet corner and practice my shadow magic.
Or…
Two nights ago, on our way to the Gilded Gallows, we’d passed a small shop that looked different from the others. The sign had caught my attention—a simple wooden board with a painted eye, half-closed, and the words “Mnemosyne’s Memories” beneath it.
A memory mage.
For weeks, I’d been haunted by the knowledge that pieces of my past had been stolen from me. That somewhere in my mind lurked the truth about what had happened the night my mother died trying to protect me. That night had ended with me locked in a tower for a year.
What if I could get those memories back?
I hesitated, knowing what Kazimir would say if I told him my plan. He’d insist on coming with me. He’d hover, protective and possessive, questioning the mage’s every move. Or worse, he’d try to forbid it entirely, citing the dangers of memory magic.
And he’d be right, a small voice in my head pointed out. Memory magic was notoriously unpredictable, especially when undoing the work of other mages.
But I was tired of pieces of myself being locked away, controlled by others. First my father, then Auremar, and now, in a different way, Kazimir.
Decision made, I turned and headed for the nearest lift that would take me down to the lower levels where the shops were located.
The lift was a strange contraption—a cage of bone and metal that descended through the Spire, offering glimpses of various levels as it passed. I counted fifteen floors before the doors opened onto an enormous, bustling marketplace.
The central atrium of the God Spire was a marvel of twisted architecture.
What had once been the rib cage of some enormous entity now formed a cathedral-like space, with bone arches soaring hundreds of feet overhead.
Tiered galleries had been carved into the ribs themselves, connected by spiraling staircases and swaying rope bridges, each level crammed with shops, stalls, and businesses.
The central space below remained open, a vast gathering place for the Spire’s eclectic inhabitants.
Unlike the upper levels with their polished elegance, this area had a grittier feel. Vendors hawked everything from enchanted trinkets to questionable potions. The air smelled of incense, exotic spices, and something metallic that I chose not to identify.
I wound my way through the first sections, past stalls selling cursed jewelry and bottled nightmares.
A vendor tried to interest me in “genuine demon tears,” but I brushed past without stopping.
I didn’t spare much thought for wandering alone through the Spire’s underbelly.
Let someone try something. I’d been itching for a fight.
It took me nearly an hour of searching, backtracking, and asking careful questions before I found the shop again.
Mnemosyne’s Memories was tucked between a shop for a soul launderer and another called “Ethical Necromancy Services,” which seemed like an oxymoron.
The contrast was striking—while its neighbors boasted flashy displays and aggressive advertising, the memory mage’s establishment was understated, almost serene.
The windows were frosted glass etched with delicate patterns of intertwining vines, offering no glimpse of the interior.
And the wooden door contained beautiful carvings of more vines, flowers, and potion bottles.
It was… cozy.
For a moment, I hesitated again. Was I really going to do this?
Without telling Kazimir? I pushed the thought away.
Yes, he’d taught me shadow magic, helped me understand the darker aspects of my power.
But this wasn’t about combat or necromancy or any of the skills he’d shared.
This was about my own mind, my own history.
He’d try to stop me, I was certain of it. He’d list all the ways it could go wrong, all the dangers of tampering with locked memories. And the worst part was, he’d probably be right. But this was something I needed to do, with or without his support.
Besides, I was still furious with him, and imagining the hypothetical argument with my husband only made me more determined.
With a deep breath, I pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The interior of the shop was nothing like I’d expected.
Instead of the dark, incense-heavy atmosphere typical of magical establishments in the God Spire, Mnemosyne’s Memories was bright and airy.
Tall windows along the back wall—windows I was certain weren’t visible from the outside—let in streams of sunlight that illuminated the space.
Shelves lined the walls, filled with books, plants, and small, curious objects that shimmered with inner light.
From a doorway at the back of the shop emerged a woman who seemed as out of place in the Spire as a butterfly in a nest of hornets.
She was middle-aged, with laugh lines around her eyes and silver streaking her dark hair, which was pulled back in a simple braid.
Her clothing was practical—loose linen pants and a flowing shirt, cinched at the waist with a blue sash embroidered with silver symbols.
But it was her smile that caught me off guard—open, genuine, lacking the predatory edge that characterized most interactions in this place.
“Welcome,” she said, her voice warm and slightly accented. “I am Mnemosyne. How may I assist you today?”
I stepped farther into the shop. Despite the pleasant atmosphere, my instincts were on high alert. Nothing in the God Spire was as benign as it appeared.
“I’m interested in recovering some memories,” I said vaguely. “Ones that may have been deliberately suppressed or erased.”
Mnemosyne’s expression didn’t change, but something in her eyes sharpened. “I see. Please, have a seat.” She gestured to a small seating area near the windows, where comfortable chairs surrounded a low table. “Would you care for tea?”
I nodded, taking a seat while keeping my back to the wall and a clear view of both the door and the woman.
Mnemosyne busied herself with a small kettle that heated instantly at her touch. As she prepared the tea, she spoke without looking at me. “Suppressed memories are delicate things, Lady Blackrose. Like butterflies with damaged wings—handle them too roughly, and they crumble to dust.”
I stiffened. “You know who I am.”
She smiled, bringing over a tray with two steaming cups. “The Dark Lady is not easily mistaken for anyone else. Besides, news travels quickly in the Spire. Your arrival with Lord Blackrose has been the subject of much speculation.”
I should have been prepared for this. Our arrival had hardly been a secret—we’d said it was our honeymoon, after all. I accepted the offered cup, inhaling the fragrant steam. It smelled of mint and something wild and unfamiliar.
“It’s mountain thyme,” Mnemosyne said, noting my curiosity. “Good for clarity of thought.”