Chapter 7
?──── Koen ? ────?
I drag myself down the last corridor, each step filled with agony. My clothes hang in tatters, half-burned, soaked with blood. My skin feels raw, scraped, scorched. Ahead, I finally feel the faint hum of the pixie’s magic, reaching me from the end of the hall.
Almost there. Just a little more.
Behind me, the gloomstalker statues still follow. Their claws scrape against the stone, sharp and steady, a sound that makes my teeth ache. I don’t look back. I can’t. If I do, I’ll freeze, and freezing means I die here.
My legs scream with every step, muscles torn and trembling. Blood runs hot down my side from the gash I’ve been ignoring since… gods, when even was that? Feels like forever ago. I stumble into the final chamber and come to a stop, stomach plummeting.
A massive gate looms in front of me. No handle. No door. The bars too close for me to squeeze through.
“No, no, no, no… come on!” I slam my fists against it desperately.
On the other side, Torin jumps up from where he was crouched on the wet ground, the pixie hovering beside him.
“Koen! You have to hurry! You’re almost out of time!”
My panic spikes. The sound of those claws scraping the stone is getting closer. My eyes dart frantically around the chamber, searching for something, anything, to help me. A lever. A godsdamned miracle.
There. Off to the side is a circular pedestal. I must’ve blown right past it while running for my life.
I glance back. The statues stop moving when I’m staring them down. Still, they’re too close. If I make for that pedestal and they move, I’m not sure I’ll make it back to the gate. Not like this.
This is it. This is where I die.
That strange shift inside me happens again. My skin prickles. The air itself seems to hum against me. Before I can even think about moving, light spills off me. Soft, golden, and alive.
It snakes along the floor like it knows the way, tendrils of sunlight unfurling toward the pedestal. My breath catches, and I’m too stunned to do anything but watch as it curls across the stone and carves glowing ancient patterns.
The pedestal flares. And the gate groans as it pulls open.
Behind me, the nearest gloomstalker shrieks. The sound sends shivers down my spine, and I don’t hesitate.
I run. My legs feel like they might collapse with each stride, but I don’t stop. The portal opens as the pixie calls it to life, and I dive through it.
The world twists, then spits me out. I hit the grass hard, breath knocked out of me. The air is cold and sharp in my lungs. Torin and the pixie tumble through after me.
I’m shaking, bloodied, too wrecked to even stand without help. But gods above, I’m alive.
“You crazy bastard,” Torin mutters, hauling me up onto unsteady feet. His eyes are wide, but there’s relief there too. “You actually made it.”
I cough out a laugh. “Did I win?”
“You survived,” he says flatly. “That’s enough. Come on. Let’s get you to a healer. You look awful.”
Torin keeps his arm braced under mine as he half-drags, half-guides me toward the healers’ wing.
Calling it “walking” would be generous. I’m limping, staggering, and barely upright.
Barely conscious. It takes a long time, every step is agony, but he never complains, never rushes, just keeps his usual calm patience, like he has all the time in the world.
By the time we finally make it, sweat drips down my back, and the world begins to tilt if I blink too long.
A healer meets us, leading me to a cot and giving me a bitter drink she says will help with the pain but may make me “feel a little funny.” Torin lowers me onto the edge and straightens with a grunt.
“We start training in the morning,” he says, like I’m not bleeding out on the floor. “So rest up when they’re done patching you.”
I stare at him in disbelief, but he’s already turning on his heel and leaving.
I sit stiffly on the edge of the bed, jaw tight, tugging what’s left of my torn shirt over my head with a hiss.
The fabric sticks to my wounds before it finally gives.
The gash on my ribs is deep, ugly, and red with heat and irritation.
I let out a sharp breath through my nose and brace for a healer to come back.
The drink doesn’t take long to start working. Instead of easing the pain, like she said it would, it just makes me feel drunk. I glance up when the curtain shifts…and freeze. I blink a few times, not trusting my eyes.
Maybe the drink is making me hallucinate.
Princess Serenya steps inside. The dim lantern-light gilds the edges of her white hair, the black streaks framing her face like shadows carved into moonlight. I’ve never seen hair like that before. It should look strange, but somehow it doesn’t. It suits her—fierce and untouchable. Beautiful, even.
Which is exactly why I shove the thought away.
“You’re bleeding through the bandage you tied wrong,” she says flatly, crossing her arms.
I clear my throat, forcing nonchalance. “I’ve had worse.” I shrug, then instantly regret it when fire lances through my ribs.
She arches a brow . “Somehow, I doubt that. Lie back.”
Her command makes me bristle. “Why?”
“Because I’m going to heal you.” There’s the faintest edge of irritation now.
Something about the way she stands there, commanding and absolutely sure of herself, unsettles me more than any monster in the trial. I hesitate, but finally lower myself onto the cot.
Her hands hover above the gash. I tense, waiting for pain, but when her magic rises, it’s not pain I feel. It’s warmth , soft and steady with something darker twined through it. Not just healing—something else.
Shadows spill from her—real shadows, like at the dinner—curling around my arms and legs, like smoke given weight.
My breath catches. “Your magic…”
“Focus on your breathing,” she snaps quickly. A flicker of something crosses her face before she reins it in. The shadows draw back, though the warmth remains, seeping deeper into me than any healer’s touch I’ve ever known.
The sensation pulls a sharp pang from my chest, but it’s gone before I can name it. For a heartbeat, when her eyes meet mine, it’s as if we both recognize something we don’t understand.
She’s the first to look away, turning back to her work.
“I didn’t know you had healing magic,” I mutter. Or at least, I think I do. My voice feels far away, and I’m struggling to stay conscious.
“It’s not widely known,” she says without looking at me. “But it isn’t a secret.” Her tone is clipped now, more guarded.
My own magic hums faintly, like it recognizes her voice. And gods help me , I want her to keep talking. So I blurt the first thing that comes to mind.
“So, uh…did you heal the others too?” I’m entirely sure why I ask. The question surprises even me. But I don’t take it back.
She doesn’t answer right away, still refusing to meet my eyes. Finally, she says, “No.” Nothing more.
Something twists in my chest at the thought. Satisfaction, maybe, though I tell myself that’s completely ridiculous.
“Hm.” My mouth curves slightly before I can stop it.
Her head snaps up. “Don’t get a big head, tavern boy . You were the last one dragged down here. Everyone else was already healed by the time I arrived.”
I lift a brow, ignoring her glare. “Or maybe…you waited until I was here. Just so you could heal me yourself, little shadow.”
All of a sudden, the healing isn’t painless anymore. Hot, searing pain shoots through me as the wound stitches itself.
I grit my teeth. “ Gods. What the hells? ”
“Stop being cocky, or I’ll make it worse. And do not call me that,” she snaps.
Just like that, the pain vanishes again. My lips twitch, betraying the laugh I bite back.
She works in silence until the last of the wounds close. Her brow is damp with sweat by the end, her shoulders tense. She pulls her hands back with a sharp exhale.
“There. Since you had so many wounds, that’s the best I can do. Try not to tear them open again. If you do, I’ll have to stitch them closed by hand, and I’m not as gentle with a needle.”
“That was gentle?”
Her gaze flickers, unreadable. “More gentle than you deserve.”
I grin as she turns away, heading towards the door. Then she’s gone, leaving the room colder than it was before.
I let out a breath, staring at the empty space she left. My brows furrow. There’s no reason I should feel like I’ve known her hands before. Yet, some part of me swears I have.