CHAPTER 20
Faelith lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling as though it might offer answers she no longer knew how to ask for. The ballroom still played in her mind—the shock, the fear, the way the world had seemed to violently tilt beneath her feet when the truth was revealed.
Or what she had been told was the truth.
She didn’t know anymore. She didn’t know what to believe or who to trust. Every thought felt like a blade turning in her chest. Every breath felt like it wasn’t enough.
She pressed her palms against her ribs, trying to steady herself, but the ache only deepened.
Then she felt a pull.
Soft at first, like a thread brushing against her skin.
Then gradually becoming a bit stronger, tugging at something deep inside her, something older than memory.
She closed her eyes, and the pull surged through her like a pulse.
It wasn’t Simon’s or Cian’s voice. It wasn’t fear or grief or confusion that echoed in her head.
It was something else.
Something ancient.
The pulse flashed painful visions behind her eyelids—quick, sharp, impossible to hold.
The Silver Grove rose before her, silver leaves shimmering in a light she had not seen before, as though the sun itself was brand new.
The air was thick. The ground glowed faintly beneath roots that twisted like veins. Time blurred, slipping out of reach.
Another pulse.
The grove vanished.
A circle of elves appeared, standing underground in a chamber beneath a towering silver oak.
Their faces were indistinct, blurred by distance, memory, or even by magic.
They stood in ritual formation, hands lifted, voices low.
In the center of the circle stood a dark-haired woman, poised and steady, her expression hidden.
A dagger glinted in her hand. Blood dripped from its edge, falling in slow, deliberate drops onto an amulet resting on an altar.
As each drop struck the silver surface, faint light flickered within the amulet, as though it drank in the offering.
Faint whispers threaded through the chamber, hinting at power meant to bind or unlock something sleeping deep within the roots of the world.
The chanting rose, echoing through the chamber, vibrating through Faelith’s bones.
The air trembled with power. The silver oak’s roots shivered as though responding to the ritual.
A bound figure knelt at the base of the roots, ropes cutting into his arms, head bowed.
When the blood touched the amulet, the figure lashed out in pain, a cry tearing through the grove, raw and desperate.
Faelith gasped and sat upright, clutching the sheets beneath her. The vision shattered, but the pull remained—stronger now, insistent, calling her toward something she felt as familiar. She pressed her hand against her chest, feeling her heartbeat thrum against her palm.
She felt that pulse before, in Mist Haven…
When she first entered Talcana. She felt the slight tug while in the arms of Simon D’Ardclaire.
The connection finally clicked; she remembered the same feeling as a child, playing in the Silver Grove.
The grove had always felt sacred, as if it guarded secrets only she could sense.
The amulet had once been pressed into her small palm by her mother, with a warning she barely remembered.
“You are the key, Faelith. Protect it. You can never unleash the hunger it holds captive.”
Years later, the grove, the amulet, and something buried in her blood were all calling to her.
She wasn’t sure who the woman was or what the ritual was used for, but she knew one thing with absolute certainty:
The force that was pulling her wouldn’t let her stay in this room a moment longer.
???
Damon stood beside the pond; the courtyard still wrapped in the last darkness before dawn.
The air was sharp enough to sting, but he welcomed the cold; it kept him alert, kept him steady, kept him from slipping into the impatience that always threatened to rise when he thought about how close he was to everything he had worked for.
The crow mask lay discarded on the stone bench behind him, its raven-colored feathers catching the last bit of remaining moonlight.
He didn’t need it now. He still had the Simon mask tucked in hand; he liked the weight of it. He liked the lie it represented.
His reflection wavered in the pond’s dark surface, broken by the occasional ripple of wind.
He watched the distortion, thinking of Cian—of the way the man had looked in the prison cell, bruised, bloodied, but still stubbornly upright.
Damon had stood outside the bars, the crow mask hiding his expression, but he remembered every detail of the moment.
Cian’s eyes had been sharp even through the pain, searching Damon’s face as though trying to find the boy he once knew.
There was no boy left.
Damon had felt a flicker of satisfaction seeing Cian like that, but it was fleeting, a thin warmth swallowed by a much deeper ache.
Not nearly enough. Killing him outright would have been too quick, too clean, too merciful.
The shards of betrayal still lived inside Damon, sharp and persistent, refusing to blunt with time.
He could still remember the night everything slipped out from under him, the precise moment his friend plunged his sword into Damon’s chest, the shock and disbelief warring in his mind long before the pain settled in.
In the aftermath, Damon’s anger had been wild and burning, but that early rage had cost him almost as much as the betrayal itself.
For weeks he had fought against it, questioning himself, searching for some piece of himself to salvage, only to find emptiness in its place.
It was easier to let the hatred settle, to let it fester, to let it harden into something cold and deliberate.
Each sleepless night, he replayed the betrayal in his mind, the memories sharpening him into the man he had become.
He wanted Cian to feel every ounce of what Damon had endured.
He wanted him to understand what it meant to lose everything.
Tearing Faelith from him had only been an appetizer, just the first taste of the ruin Damon intended to serve.
And Damon had orchestrated every step of her arrival.
He had been the one who sent the summons to the Diwaller, crafting the message with careful urgency, knowing the council would seize upon any opportunity to parade their authority.
He had slipped mention of the Silver Grove into their private correspondence, knowing their greed would surface the moment they sensed a relic of power.
They had taken the bait exactly as he expected—arguing, posturing, insisting Faelith be brought to the Capital for “evaluation.” Damon had watched their ambition flare like dry tinder, and he had smiled behind the Simon mask, knowing they were doing his work for him.
He turned the Simon persona over in his mind.
It was almost amusing how easily Faelith had trusted that person, how readily she had believed the gentle voice, the careful concern, the soft-spoken guidance.
She had never suspected the truth beneath it.
She had never seen the man who had once raised a sword to her people, who shed the blood of elven men, women, and children. But then, she never expect Cian either.
He remembered that night with perfect clarity.
He had been young—reckless, ambitious, desperate to prove himself. Cian’s blade had pierced him cleanly, dropping him to the ground. He had felt the world dim, felt the cold seep into his bones, felt the darkness swallow him whole. He had thought it was the end.
It wasn’t.
His master had found him. Damon didn’t know why he had bothered to stop, to see if he still breathed, but he remembered the shadow falling over him, the voice speaking his name with quiet certainty.
You are not finished.
The man had lifted him from the dirt, tended his wound, fed him, sheltered him.
He had trained Damon, shaped him, taught him truths Damon had never imagined.
He had shown him the lore of Aelthrys—the Elder God who had once brought the world to its knees.
The god whose power had been infinite, whose hunger had been bound only by blood and sacrifice.
Aelthrys had risen from the roots of the world, a being of pure magic and appetite.
Kingdoms had fallen in days. Rivers had turned to ash.
The sky had cracked. The god’s voice had echoed across continents, promising power to any who knelt.
The elves had refused. They had fought. They had bled.
They had bound the god beneath the grove, sealing him with the blood of their strongest line.
Faelith’s line. She was descended from the ancient blood that had sealed Aelthrys away, the last living heir of the power that had once bound the god beneath the grove.
It was her blood in the ritual, her lineage in the old magic, that kept the seal strong—and it was only her blood that could break it.
Damon’s master had taught him the old stories, the ones whispered in fear. He had shown him the ancient texts, taught him the rituals, whispered the truth:
The world was meant for order. It will kneel again.
Damon believed him still.
He stared at the pond, imagining the moment the seal would break, imagining the surge of power rising from the grove, imagining the way the world would tremble beneath it.
He imagined himself standing at the center of it all, the amulet in his hand, Faelith’s blood unlocking the door, the god reclaiming his throne.
He imagined the power.
Infinite.
Unbound.
His.