Chapter 8 Noctyras
Noctyras
Itry to rest. Really, I do. When the bed doesn’t lull me to sleep, I stretch out on the velvet settee beside the fire instead.
The room is quiet. Too quiet. The fire is burning low in the hearth. The embers breathe gently, like a sleeping beast waiting to be stoked. I let my eyes close, just for a moment, trying to focus on the rhythm of my breathing, trying to forget where I am. The silence is crushing.
The dragon’s deafening roar and rattling growls still echo in my memory. I hear them even now, low and guttural, as if the memory is hiding just beneath my skin. This place, whatever it is, doesn’t want me to forget.
I open my eyes and decide to stretch my legs, stepping out onto the balcony. The mist beyond the rail curls and clings to the horizon like it’s alive, shrouding whatever lies beyond the thick, luminous fog.
I glance back at the door, then at the lantern on the bedside table.
I shouldn’t leave, I know that, but something about the stillness in this place just feels so…
staged. As if the quiet was arranged, curated, like a scene in a play, just waiting for the actors to step in and ruin it.
I put on a dressing down and grab the lantern.
At my touch, it glows softly to life, steady and warm.
At the door, I hesitate, remembering Marb’s warning. But every instinct screams for me to explore my new prison. My fingers brush the handle, and it turns without resistance, creaking open with a sigh.
The corridor breathes with muted starlight filtered through ivy-veiled arches. Dust swirls like powdered bone in the lamplight, and the air smells faintly of old paper and iron. Beneath my slippers, the stone is cool and cracked, covered in rugs frayed into ghosts of their former selves.
I move through the keep like an intruder in someone else’s memory. A chandelier dangles overhead, half its crystals missing. A mirror has split clean down the middle, dividing my reflection into two versions of the same girl—one that runs, one that stays.
Something glows ahead—a faint red flicker just beyond the next archway.
My lantern stutters in response, its flame dipping, then flaring again. The light ahead shifts, wavering as if caught by wind or mist. It moves—not hovering, not waiting—just drifting forward, then slipping out of sight.
I follow it.
The glow reappears near a stairwell half-hidden behind a collapsed tapestry. The steps are wide and worn, their centers eroded by centuries of use. Moss creeps along the edges. Scattered petals dot the stone, crushed and darkened as though someone passed this way not long ago.
I pause at the base, exhaling slowly.
“Yes,” I mutter. “Let’s follow the mysterious light through a cursed castle in the middle of the night. Brilliant.”
Turn back, something whispers inside me.
Then I hear it.
Not the light. Not a sound, exactly.
A voice.
Soft. Familiar.
Selene, my daughter… come closer.
My grip tightens on the lantern. My throat closes.
No. That’s impossible. Grief has a way of wearing familiar voices. That’s all this is. A memory echoing where it doesn’t belong.
But the voice comes again, barely more than breath: You’ll know the way when it finds you.
The light flickers once more—farther up now—and against my better judgment, I climb.
One level, then another. The air grows colder, heavier. Somewhere above, something creaks—a beam settling, perhaps, or wind worrying at a shutter.
At the top of the final flight, the glow slips through an arched doorway stripped to splintered wood and iron vines.
I step through—and stop short.
A bridge stretches before me, long and narrow, suspended between towers. The stone beneath my feet is worn smooth and uneven with age. One side still clings to the remnants of a carved railing. The other is gone entirely—open to the night.
Fog rolls beneath it, thick and endless. I can’t see the bottom.
Fall, and you die.
I press one hand to the remaining rail, the other tight around my lantern. The glow ahead has vanished now, swallowed by mist.
“Of course,” I mutter. “A death bridge.”
I draw a breath and step forward.
The stone shifts slightly beneath my weight. Wind tugs at my skirts. My lantern flickers but holds.
Halfway across, I glance down—and instantly regret it.
With a fall like that, I’d disappear into the fog and never be found. No salvation. No second chances.
You survived the dragon, I remind myself. The lake. The fire.
But something colder answers, This place isn’t meant to test you. It’s meant to break you.
I reach the far side at last, lungs burning.
Beyond the bridge, the path descends into a garden choked with overgrowth. The earth here is damp and alive. Roses climb broken trellises and shattered columns, their blooms dark and heavy with dew. Mist coils between them, warm and sweet with decay.
This place feels… watched.
I step forward, the lantern casting wavering light over cracked statues and moss-covered benches. The ground slopes downward—
“Careful, Fire.”
The voice is low. Too close.
I whirl instinctively toward it, and the stone beneath my foot crumbles.
With a gasp, the world tilts. My lantern slips from my grasp as it tumbles into darkness—
And then strong arms catch me mid-fall.
Warm. Solid. Unyielding.
I collide with a broad chest, the scent of cedar, smoke, and rain flooding my senses. His grip is sure, anchoring me as though gravity itself has bent to his will.
For a breathless moment, I can only cling to him, my heart hammering.
The fallen lantern lies nearby, its flame guttering but still alive. By its flicker, I glimpse the ledge I nearly fell from—looming far above us.
No man could have moved that fast.
I look at him then—really look.
Moonlight silhouettes his form, carving him from shadow and silver. Dark hair stirs in the wind. The mist recoils around him as if giving ground. And his eyes—
Oh, stars.
Blue fire. Bright at the edges, burning like lightning trapped behind glass. Too beautiful. Too terrible.
“Who…” My voice trembles. “Who are you?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, his calloused fingers brush stray strands of hair from my face, his touch impossibly gentle.
The world narrows. My limbs go weak, the night folding inward.
The last thing I feel is his hand steady against my cheek—hot enough to burn.
Then darkness takes me.
I jolt upright in bed. The fire has been rekindled, crackling gently in the hearth. Pale morning light spills through the velvet curtains. My lantern rests on the bedside table, but I could’ve sworn I’d lost it last night when I explored the castle. Right?
For a moment, I’m too stunned to move. What time is it? Was it all just a dream?
But it can’t be. My hair clings to my skin, still damp with dew—though that could just be sweat. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, my feet touching the floor. Glancing down, I see my robe is damp at the hem and stained with grass marks.
And my arms…
I lift them slowly. Thin scratches run along my forearms, a few even dotted with dried blood.
A soft knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts.
Before I can answer, Marb flutters in, balancing a tray with both hands. Her wings shimmer pale gold in the dawn light, and she looks… entirely unfazed.
“Oh, good, you’re awake,” she chirps, hovering in the doorway. “I brought you some breakfast.”
I push myself up on my elbows, still half-dazed. “What… what is this place called?”
Marb’s wings flick once, scattering motes of light across the walls. “Mortals call it the Onyx Keep. But the fae and dragons know its true name.” She gives me a knowing look. “And for the record, I did tell you not to leave your room.”
Heat creeps up my neck.
Marb smiles and lowers her voice, as if the walls themselves are listening. “The king’s Keep is called—” She pauses, letting the silence stretch just long enough to matter.
“Noctyras.”
The word settles into me like a stone dropped into still water. Dark. Ancient. A name that feels less spoken than claimed. Night-bound. Watchful.
Of course this place has a name like that.
Marb hums to herself as she helps untie the ribbon at the neck of my robe, unperturbed. She lifts a new gown from the wardrobe and holds it up for me to admire.
But I barely even notice. Because just then, something small falls from the fold of my dressing robe.
A petal. Dark, almost black. Veined in dried crimson.
As I kneel to pick it up, my eyes catch something else on the bedside table: a velvet-red rose in full bloom. Its petals gleam faintly in the firelight, as if kissed by stardust.
I lift it slowly. The stem is warm in my hand.
It wasn’t a dream. And neither was he.