Chapter 32 The Folded Tower
Daphne
The Folded Tower
The air left my lungs as I hit the soft grass. I tumbled to a stop and opened my eyes. The sky above me stretched clear, a pale lavender color. It smelled of damp earth and wildflowers.
Whatever this place was, it was a world apart from the catacombs.
“Emrys?”
I frantically looked around, and he responded with a groan.
My heart sank when I saw him lying motionless just two feet away.
“Emrys!” I kneeled at his side. Mirrors and mirror shards littered the grass—big and small, framed and cracked.
I didn’t waste any time pondering over this oddity, as he was in a dire condition.
His shirt was tattered, and he was bleeding. Sigils were etched into his skin as if carved with a razor blade.
“What happened, Emrys? Where are we?” My fingers trembled as I opened his shirt wider. Bile rose in my throat. It looked bad.
“The Dusk Roads. Magical wound, little thief. I need to… recover.”
I touched his forehead. He was burning. “How can I help?” Blood trickled from his mouth. He couldn’t complete the ritual. We were still bound and in the middle of nowhere. If he died now—
It would surely kill me, too. But there was more. The sudden realization hit me like a slap in the face. I couldn’t stand the idea of losing Emrys Ravenborn.
“Get us into the Folded Tower. It’s a… hideout.” He weakly pointed a bloodied finger. The odd tower stood in the center of the mirror-covered clearing. A dark forest circled us. The crumbling building hid among a sea of blooming bougainvillea, its roof and half of its walls torn down.
I looked around. We were alone. No help, no way out. “Come on, let’s get you inside.” I slung his arm around my shoulders and tried to pull him to his feet. Sweet Mary and Joseph—how heavy was this man? My muscles strained, sinews nearly tearing, but I couldn’t lift him an inch.
“Come on, Emrys! I need you to help a little!” I huffed.
His dark lashes fluttered, and he slowly pushed himself up.
My bones screamed as he leaned on me, but I bit my lip and stepped toward the arched wooden door.
One step, then another. Our strained breath was the only sound breaking the unnatural silence.
There were no birds in the nearby forest and no wind to move the branches.
Yet I felt watched. Was that a flash of movement I caught from the side of my eye?
Nope. Not planning on lingering around to find out.
“Hurry, Emrys.” We dragged ourselves closer to the tower, stepping on the mirrors scattered around and cracking them.
“We’re safe here, but beware—” he licked his cracked lips — “beware of the snatchkins.” I paused, glancing over my shoulder. The shadows under the tree canopy seemed to thicken.
“Snatch-what?”
Heavens, what cursed monstrosities lurked here?
“Grinters. They’re called grinters in the old tongue,” he said, and his eyelids dropped. My blood turned to ice. Don’t grin after dark, or the grinters will come! I remembered that nursery rhyme too well.
I let out a sigh of relief when the massive wooden door creaked open.
Warm air rushed to meet us, carrying the scent of pinewood smoke, candle wax, and old books.
Emrys sagged heavier against me, and I tightened my grip, guiding him over the threshold.
He dragged his feet along the terracotta tiles.
Vines of bougainvillea curled down from above, spilling petals onto the floor.
Beyond them was the odd pale purple sky.
The place looked so much bigger from the inside.
The Folded Tower, Emrys had called it. I guess it made sense.
Bookshelves lined the old stone walls, their spines worn and glinting with gold leaf, and a fire crackled in a deep hearth.
Our feet sank into braided rugs. A kettle hissed on the iron stove as if someone had been expecting us.
A soft bed stood in the corner, draped in linen the color of cream, its pillows puffed.
Emrys barely made a sound as I eased him into it.
For a moment, I stood in the center of it all—listening to the pop of sap in the logs, the occasional rustle of bougainvillea petals falling.
This was a sanctuary.
I rubbed the stiff muscles of my shoulders. We were safe, for now.
I poured some hot water into a clay bowl and took a clean towel from the kitchen. Emrys looked too pale, his chest heaving unevenly, his breath barely perceptible.
“I’m sorry, but I have to do this!” I whispered. My stomach dropped. The deep slashes still oozed blood over his sculpted torso. How was I supposed to treat a magical wound? Would cleaning it help?
I soaked the towel and gently wiped away the blood.
A tingle ran through my fingers when I brushed over his bare skin—the gentle bite of magic.
My hands glided over the swells of his powerful chest, honed by centuries of swordplay, and his mysterious tattoos seemed to move when I touched them.
Inch by inch, I cleaned his stomach, and when I changed the water for a third time, the bleeding had stopped.
Even better—his breathing was normal now.
Emrys was sleeping. I sank into the velvet chair next to the bed and grabbed a book from the tea table.
It was the strangest map collection I had ever seen.
Celestial spheres spun in the aether, their paths crossing, and constellations I’d never known existed flickered above strange worlds.
My eyes darted back to the sleeping man next to me.
His powerful body was framed by the pale sheets, petals spread over his pillow—he looked like a painting from another time.
What kind of universal riddle was Emrys?
Blushing, I forced my gaze away as I sensed another type of curiosity seeping in.
How would it feel to have those hands on my skin?
Heat curled beneath my belly. I looked away and pinched the bridge of my nose.
This place played tricks, right? I stood up and paced around. My footsteps stirred the silence, and then I realized they weren’t the only ones. Someone was mimicking them beyond the door.
Then I heard the most unexpected noise. Laughter. Light-hearted, nearly child-like. I stood still, but the footfall outside continued. Multiplied.
Who walked out there? Dread made my limbs heavy. Emrys had warned me.
Something was not right about this place.
“Daphne?” my mother’s voice called from the other side. My hands flew to my mouth to muffle a scream.
The thing at the door sounded like my mother. My drowned mother.
Go on, take a peek. A tiny voice inside my head encouraged me.
“Daphne?” she called again. I knew this was impossible. This was a trap, but my feet refused to listen to reason and moved on their own. I was at the door.
Before I could realize what was happening, I lifted the latch and stepped outside.