Chapter 38 Wren #2
Benedict pretends not to hear him. “Cassiel was the brightest student in my tutelage, but by the Saints, he was a menace. Always mixing what shouldn’t be mixed, sneaking into storerooms to ‘experiment’—do you remember the time you nearly burned your own eyebrows off?”
“Must you bring that up?”
Benedict grins. “Absolutely. It was a spectacular explosion. The entire left wing of the library reeked of singed hair and alchemical smoke for weeks. I’d have been annoyed if I wasn’t rather impressed.”
Cassiel shakes his head, smiling despite himself. “I was trying to stabilise a volatile solution.”
“And instead, you created a fireball.” Benedict sips his wine, his gaze warm. “Ah, but those were interesting times…”
I listen in silence, taking careful bites of the bread and cheese. Their easy camaraderie is fascinating—Cassiel is more relaxed than I’ve seen him in weeks. Even when teasing, Benedict’s fondness is obvious, and for once, Cassiel seems content to let himself be drawn into nostalgia.
And yet, I can’t quite settle.
The strange hum in the air hasn’t faded. If anything, it feels stronger now that I’m sitting still. The warmth of the fire doesn’t quite reach the edges of my skin, and something—something beneath the surface of this house—is waiting.
I set my teacup down, fingers tightening around the arm of my chair.
Benedict’s gaze flickers to me, sharp and knowing.
“Something wrong, Ser Thornvale?”
Cassiel, mid-laugh, glances at me, brow furrowing. “Wren?”
I force a smile. “No,” I say smoothly. “Just… adjusting to the quiet.”
Benedict hums, clearly unconvinced. But he doesn’t press.
Instead, he leans back, twirling his wineglass between his fingers. “Well then,” Benedict says, setting his goblet aside. His smile sharpens. “Now that you’ve had a chance to warm up, shall we move on to the true purpose of your visit?”
Cassiel tenses ever so slightly, though he covers it well. “You mean to show me what you wrote about?”
Benedict inclines his head. “If you’re ready.”
Cassiel hesitates for only a moment before nodding. “Lead the way.”
Benedict rises smoothly, gesturing for us to follow.
I cast a glance at Cassiel, but his expression is unreadable.
Whatever curiosity or apprehension he feels, he keeps it buried beneath a court-perfect mask.
He rises from his chair, tapping his cane along the floor, following the sound of Benedict’s footsteps.
He leads us to a concealed set of stairs under the main staircase. There’s nothing unusual about that, of course—these big houses usually have concealed passages for the servants, for a strange human reason I can’t quite comprehend. The scent, however, is unusual.
It’s cold. Metallic.
Cassiel sucks in a breath. I know he registers it too.
“Keep going,” Benedict says. “Another six steps.”
The deeper we go, the stronger the scent becomes, thickening into something cloying, settling on my tongue.
Copper.
Blood.
So much of it.
Finally, we hit the bottom step, and find ourselves in a laboratory.
Shelves line the walls, crammed with jars of murky liquid.
I glimpse the twisted remains of fey creatures suspended within—delicate limbs curled unnaturally, faces frozen in expressions of silent agony.
A tiny winged figure, no larger than my hand, is pressed against the glass, her features warped and indistinct, as though she had dissolved into the fluid meant to preserve her.
Another jar holds a severed limb, its pale skin marked with strange symbols that seem to shimmer even in death.
Cages line the far wall, filled with small creatures—birds, rats, things that move and breathe but should not.
Some lie motionless, their bodies twisted as if wracked with pain.
Others twitch and jerk, their feathers or fur patchy, their eyes cloudy with unnatural film.
A few open their mouths as if to chirp or squeak, but no sound comes out.
One rat drags itself across its cage floor, its hind legs limp, as though something inside it has broken beyond repair.
The ones that still linger on the edge of life are far worse than the others.
A bird, its feathers pale and brittle, blinks up at me with milky-white eyes. It tries to stretch its wings, but the moment they unfurl, they crumble to dust. Another flutters weakly, its body riddled with scars.
The smell is overwhelming. Blood and magic, thick and cloying. Something unnatural is at work here, twisting life into shapes it was never meant to know.
I swallow against the rising nausea, against the fury clawing its way up my throat.
It takes everything in me not to explode when my gaze falls past the cages to a figure strapped to a table at the back of the room.
It’s a fey woman. Not some pixie or sprite or animal from the forest, but one of the high fey. Her skin is pale as moonlight and her hair whiter still. She could be any one of my kinfolk.
Her wrists and ankles are bound with iron, her body pale and near lifeless. She barely breathes. The tubes running from her arms are slick with fresh blood, feeding into waiting vials.
Her eyelids flutter, but they do not open.
I do not know if she is even aware of us.
Cassiel is rigid beside me, breathing unsteady.
“Wren,” he murmurs. “Tell me what you see.”
I open my mouth.
No words come.
“I can’t,” I manage.
Benedict watches me, and his smile curves, self-satisfied. “I’ve all sorts here,” he says. “But the crowning glory is the fey creature in the centre. It’s still alive—just. I’m draining her of her blood.”
Cassiel swallows. “What—” He exhales sharply, struggling against the thick, suffocating air. “What is this?”
Benedict spreads his hands. “An experiment. A necessary one.”
The hum of magic presses against my skull, nearly drowning out his voice.
The sconces on the wall flare.
“Interesting,” Benedict remarks, before waving it away.
He steps closer to the table, resting a hand lightly on the fey woman’s arm.
She doesn’t even flinch. “Fey blood has remarkable properties, as I’m sure you know.
It accelerates healing, staves off illness.
But its true potential? That has yet to be fully realised. ”
Cassiel sways on his feet. I steady him without thinking.
Benedict’s gaze gleams. He doesn’t seem to notice the revulsion emanating from either of us. “Imagine it, Cassiel. A cure for all ailments. Perhaps even—” His smile sharpens. “A cure for blindness.”
Cassiel stiffens. A cold, sick feeling coils in my gut.
Beside me, Cassiel has gone deathly quiet. I want to look at him, to see his face, to read whatever battle is playing out behind his stillness, but my gaze is locked onto the fey woman on the table.
Her eyes are open now. They stare straight at me.
At last, Cassiel exhales.
“The fumes,” he says, voice strained. “They’re getting to me. I need to go back upstairs.”
Benedict’s expression flickers—disappointed, perhaps—but he waves a hand. “Of course. We can speak more once you’ve had time to think.”
I don’t wait for permission. I tighten my grip on Cassiel’s arm and steer him toward the stairs, forcing myself not to look back at the table, at the dying woman who does not even have the strength to beg.
“Are you all right?” I ask Cassiel, hoping Benedict is far away enough not to hear.
“Yes,” he says. “Are you?”
I don’t have an answer for that, but I think we both know Cassiel had no issue with the fumes at all.
The climb back up the stairs feels longer than it should. Cassiel is quiet beside me, his grip light on my sleeve, his movements careful. I cannot tell what he is thinking, or what he plans to do. I know he doesn’t like the fey, but he can’t be all right with this… can he?
Benedict, for his part, seems utterly at ease.
He leads us back into the sitting room as though we have just returned from a pleasant stroll through his gardens. “Now then,” he says cheerfully, pouring himself another glass of wine. “Shall we pretend that was not quite so shocking as it was?”
Cassiel does not respond immediately. Instead, he sinks into the chair by the fire, holding his hands out to the warmth. He’s still too pale. Too quiet. “I’ll take that drink now.”
Benedict’s smile is swift, indulgent. “Of course.”
I cross to the sideboard before Benedict can move, reaching for the decanter myself. My hands are steadier than they should be. I pour a glass for Cassiel and, without hesitation, take a quick sip from the bottle before filling his. The burn steadies me.
Cassiel’s fingers brush mine as he takes the glass.
Benedict sprawls into his own chair, utterly unconcerned. “You have questions,” he says, swirling his wine. “I expected as much.”
Cassiel nods, his expression blank. “How long have you been working on this?”
Benedict hums. “A few years, give or take. Researching, collecting… experimenting.” He takes a sip, watching Cassiel over the rim of his glass. “You understand, of course. These things take time.”
I barely hear them. I don’t know Cassiel’s feelings on these experiments. I won’t be able to ask him until we’re back in the carriage. It’s entirely possible that, even if he’s disgusted like I am, a potential cure for blindness might sway his morals.
For a moment, it almost sways mine.
But not for long.
I can’t leave that woman like that.
I set my own glass down. “Excuse me,” I say lightly. “May I use the water closet?”
Benedict waves a hand. “Of course.”
I slip from the room, keeping my steps quiet, my breathing measured. I do not go to the water closet. Instead, I find a small study, the desk covered in scattered notes. There is paper, there is ink.
Perfect.
I tear a sheet free and write as fast as I dare.
To any fey who can hear me—
Come to Greenvale Manor.
There is one of ours here, dying.
Come and end this. Come and make Benedict Greenvale pay.
I write the same words a dozen times over.
Then, slipping back through the hall, I ease open the front door and step into the day. The cold bites at my skin, but I do not let it slow me.
I lift a hand and call.
The response is immediate.
A dozen pairs of eyes flicker open in the dark—perched along the rooftop, hidden among the branches. Small bodies shift and stir, feathers rustling, tiny claws clicking against wood and stone. The birds are watching. Waiting.
I whisper the spell, and they obey.
One by one, they flutter down to take the messages, clasping them in sharp little beaks.
One by one, they take flight.
East. West. North. South.
I watch them disappear into the sky.
Then, smoothing my expression, I turn and step back inside, shutting the door softly behind me.
The warmth should feel comforting after the cold air. It doesn’t. Standing by Cassiel’s side helps, at least a little. He inclines his head towards me as I take my place behind his chair, his fingers tightening around his glass, but he says nothing. Neither do I.
Benedict keeps talking. His voice drifts in and out, a low, rhythmic hum against the crackling fire. I barely hear him. Words blur together, dissolving into meaningless sound. My thoughts are elsewhere—following the birds, counting the minutes, waiting for the sky to crack open.
It could be minutes.
It could be hours.
I want to get us both out of here as soon as possible.
It occurs to me that it might not be safe to linger, that I’ve acted rashly.
I need an excuse to leave. What can I tell him?
It isn’t my place to tell him to do anything, but if I tell him I’m uncomfortable, if I can do so without alerting Benedict, surely, he’ll—
A sound murmurs through the manor. A deep, low rumble from beneath the floorboards. It is not thunder. It is not the wind. It is something else.
Benedict stills mid-sentence, his brow furrowing.
The fire flickers. The glasses on the table tremble.
He stands, moving towards the door. “What—”
It is the last thing he says.
A heartbeat later, the room explodes.