Chapter 40
Chapter forty
Gisela jolted awake as the King’s guard carriage lurched over rocky ground, the clattering wheels hammering a rhythm into her skull.
Damp timber and stale air filled the cramped space.
She reached for the throbbing at the back of her head, but her hand jerked to a stop as the iron bit into her skin. She glanced down at her feet.
Shackled.
With a groan, she pushed herself up off the floor, her body aching from the rough ride. Leaning against the wall of the carriage, she closed her eyes and forced her breath to slow.
“Eira.”
“I’m here,” came the soft reply inside her mind. A single tear slid from the corner of Gisela’s eye—one she allowed herself—before she wiped it away. She checked the small, barred window.
Daylight had come.
Muffled voices from outside drifted in. The guards rode close to the carriage, their voices barely rising above the rhythm of hooves. Cillian rode well ahead, a distant shadow leading the way.
“They’re saying they saw a giant bird above the clouds,” one guard said.
“A giant bird?” another scoffed. “And I have a Grimthorn Bramble in my yard.”
They snickered, their laughter grating on her nerves.
“The King doesn’t care about birds. He cares about Cillian’s boy.”
Gisela stilled.
“Right,” another responded. “Fire like that doesn’t come from nowhere. If the King gets his hands on that kind of power—”
The rhythm of the lead horse shifted. The conversation died instantly as Cillian doubled back.
Leather creaked.
“We could freeze the shackles off,” Eira offered.
Gisela shook her head, her expression hardening. “I don’t want them to know. Not yet.”
The carriage halted, gravel crunching beneath the wheels. The door flew open and bright morning light slammed into her, stinging her eyes.
Cillian stood there, silhouetted against the sun, the scarred half of his face looking even more ghoulish in the daylight. “Get up,” Cillian barked.
Gisela stood, legs weak but her chin high. She met his gaze, revulsion turning in her stomach. She forced a smirk. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”
Cillian leapt into the carriage. His hand snapped out, knotting in her hair. With a brutal yank, he hauled her to the door and threw her out.
She landed hard. Pain flared through her throbbing skull. Still, she looked up at him with a smile.
“Go take a piss. The King doesn’t want his carriage full of waste. A guard will escort you.”
“You’ve always known how to care for a woman, haven’t you, Cillian?” she said with a jagged sweetness.
“You’ve got a smart mouth for such a stupid girl,” he said. “Running around with my son? You’re as foolish as he is. For that, your life is over.”
She obeyed and walked off to the side near a bush, fighting back the humiliation that rose like bile. Her jaw clenched. She refused to let Cillian see her break. As she bent down to relieve herself, the escorting guard kept his eyes averted.
When she returned, Cillian was waiting with a malicious grin on his face.
She climbed back into the carriage and a stale piece of bread struck her shoulder and bounced off the dirty floorboards.
“Hungry?” Cillian slammed the door shut behind her with a satisfied grunt.
Gisela reluctantly picked up the bread, her stomach growling in response. She chewed it slowly, tasting grit and anger. She would need every scrap of strength for what came next.
She didn’t know how much time had passed, but the stiffness in her wrists and legs told her it had been a while.
Peeking through the small window of the carriage, Gisela took in the hum of life in Tevrin.
Laughter, shouting, and the clatter of hooves and wheels reached her ears.
She realized how different it was from the villages.
Here life moved boldly, full of energy, almost daring her to notice it.
The King’s castle rose above it all, massive and gray, its stone walls streaked by centuries of weathering.
Tall spires cut into the sky, and the stained-glass windows, deep crimson and sapphire, caught the sunlight, scattering splashes of color across the bustling grounds.
A wide moat shimmered between the fortress and the town.
Heavy chains groaned as the drawbridge descended. With a jolt, the carriage rolled forward, wheels clattering over the wooden planks. The door swung open, and sunlight blasted in, forcing her to blink. Even the air smelled fresher here.
Cillian jumped off his horse, barking, “Move.”
She shuffled her way out and leapt down with a smirk. Right where she wanted to be—if everything went according to plan.
But plans had a way of breaking.
Gisela’s feet stumbled as she was dragged down a dark corridor in the King’s castle, the stone walls narrowing with every step.
They stopped at an iron door at the end, where Cillian pulled out a ring of keys, the metallic jingle echoing.
With a twist, the door clicked open, shooting out a blast of cold air.
Cillian’s malicious smile suggested he thought the chill would be unbearable for her. He was wrong. The cold sang to her.
The stairs descended, winding deeper into the castle’s depths, where light and warmth dared not venture.
Each step sent a shiver down her spine, not from the cold but from the weight of where she was headed.
They came to a stop at yet another door.
Cillian unlocked it to reveal a long hallway lined with prison cells, their iron bars coated in rust. The air was stale, smelling like metal and mildew.
A dim, flickering light lit up the grim path, while the slow drop of water echoed in the silence.
They reached a small cell at the back of the hall. Calling it a cell was generous—it was more like a narrow gap in the wall, barely wide enough to fit a person.
Gisela clenched her jaw at the sight. Her heartbeat kicked hard against her ribs at the thought of being confined in such a tight space.
Eira stirred uneasily inside, her restless energy flooding through her veins.
Cillian’s smirk widened. “I picked the one I thought you might like best.”
Gisela steeled herself, staring at Cillian with unyielding defiance. She refused to let him see the fear creeping up her spine.
“Or,” he said, leaning closer, “you could tell us where Thorne is, and you won’t have to go in there at all.”
“I don’t know where he is,” Gisela said, her voice steady. She leaned in closer as well. “And even if I did, I would never tell you.”
Cillian’s expression darkened. He grabbed Gisela by the hair, yanking her forward. Pain flared in her scalp, but she refused to utter a sound. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. He shoved her into the cramped space. The echo of the slamming door rang in her ears.
She watched him walk away, nostrils flaring.
“What are you planning to do?” Eira asked.
Gisela’s lips curved into a determined smile. “I’m in the castle. As close to the Stones as I can get. Once everyone’s asleep, I’ll break out and find them. The Ice Stone has always called to me. I can find it.”
As the reality of her confinement sank in, her breathing quickened. The tight space was oppressive, suffocating. She closed her eyes, imagining herself in the wide-open field near the Snowdrifts. There was no room for fear—not now, not when she was so close to the Stones.
“They will come for us,” Eira said with concern. “Thorne won’t wait.”
“Then I have to be quicker than him.”
Gisela waited. She kept her eyes closed as much as possible and focused on the steady rise and fall of her chest. Eira’s soothing voice guided her through the moments when the walls tightened around her, urging her to stay calm.
The silence pressed against her ears. There was no sign of movement or life in the hallway, but she suspected that prisoners didn’t survive long down here.
Once she was sure that no one would come for her tonight, Gisela focused her energy on her shackles, channeling a frigid cold that grew more intense.
They weakened and the sudden slam of a door echoed down the hall.
She froze, cursing under her breath as the footsteps of two—no, three men—approached.
The whites of the King’s eyes were stark in the dim corridor as he strode forward, his robes trailing behind him. He had come all this way, through every locked door, to see her himself.
Cillian followed closely, but it was the third figure, cloaked in a long black robe with a hood pulled low, that drew her attention. His features were hidden, but something about his presence made the air feel colder. A slight flutter in her chest made her stiffen.
“Thank you, Cillian,” the King said stiffly. “You’re dismissed.”
Cillian recoiled, his expression soured. “Your Majesty, I thought it would be wise if—”
“Are you implying I lack wisdom?” the King’s voice rose, cold and cutting.
“N—No, I’m merely suggesting, since it’s my son—”
“I did not ask for your suggestions, Cillian, nor do I require your assistance any longer. You are dismissed.”
Gisela smirked behind the bars of her cell, flashing Cillian a quick, mocking wink.
His jaw clenched, lips curling in barely restrained rage as he spun on his heel and stormed down the hallway. The door slammed shut behind him.
“He will become a problem, my King,” the robed figure said.
“I am well aware, Zaro,” the King replied curtly.
Gisela’s expression shifted slightly as something strange flooded through her body, a sensation both unsettling and familiar.
“Gisela Valor,” the King began, his voice smooth yet cold. “The herbalist. What a disappointment it is to see you here.”
“I agree, Your Majesty,” Gisela replied, her eyes sweeping around her cramped cell with a touch of sarcasm. “These arrangements are quite disappointing.”
The King chuckled, though she couldn’t tell whether it was genuine or a cruel facade. “I don’t wish you harm. You will be moved to a larger cell. This was Cillian’s doing.”
Gisela’s eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“Or you can be released right now. If you tell us where Thorne Alderose is.”
“What do you want with him?” she asked.
The King studied her with a calculating stare, weighing his words. “You two were never close before. What has changed?”
“And how would you even know that?”
“Cillian sings like a canary. About many things,” the King said, his tone darkening. “So much so, he’s informed me of his son’s power, which appears to be quite unique.”
“And why hasn’t Cillian been punished for hiding that from you as I am now?”
“He has earned his place here. If he’d truly known, he would have turned him in immediately. His hatred for his own son has oddly outshone his hatred for Mystics.”
Gisela blinked. “Why do you want to hurt Thorne? He hasn’t done anything wrong.”
The King cocked his head, smirking. “Hasn’t he? Have you seen Cillian’s face?” He gave Gisela a pointed look before his expression shifted, the smirk lingering. “But my intention is not to harm him. Or any Mystic, for that matter.”
“You’re doing that now. Forcing awakenings. It may not seem like harm to you . . . but it is.”
The King’s smile widened into something sinister. “Intervening with their awakening is surely better than slitting their throats, don’t you think?”
Gisela flinched. “Why do you need to—”
“You’re a smart girl, aren’t you, Gisela?” the King said, turning away from her cell. “I’ll have you moved, but I expect to be given Thorne’s location,” he called over his shoulder.
“You feel that right?” Eira whispered into her mind.
Zaro stepped forward, allowing a nearby torch to illuminate his face. A strange, eerie light sharpened his eyes, as though they held a power beyond this world. His features were precise, his face unnaturally symmetrical—as though he had been carved from the gods themselves. Or something else.
“Who are you?” Gisela asked, her voice cutting through the tense silence.
Zaro’s lips curled into a wide, unsettling smile. “The Ancient Elder, of course.”
Gisela let out a soft, mocking laugh. “They actually believe that, don’t they?” She leaned against the bars of her cell, her tone lowering with challenge. “You’ve been keeping a different secret, haven’t you Zaro?”
“Ah, but you’re harboring the same secret, Frostweaver,” Zaro replied, his tone laced with a knowing edge.
Gisela’s mask slipped, but she caught it, her eyes narrowing.
Zaro’s gaze never left hers as he lowered his head slightly, his stare penetrating.
“What are you?” she asked.
Zaro’s face became a mask of neutrality. “I am many things.”
Gisela’s frustration flared. “You’re a Mystic, working under a tyrant King, helping to kill your own kind. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”
Zaro’s brow lifted ever so slightly. “You think they’re dying?” For a moment, genuine concern crossed his face.
“They might as well be. You’re forcing awakenings. It’s barbaric.”
“The King is an impatient man,” Zaro said.
The way he said the word “king” made Gisela pause. “Speak plainly,” Gisela demanded through gritted teeth.
Zaro let out a soft chuckle. “We’re going to have to build some trust first, Gisela. We hardly know each other.”
“What makes you think I’d ever want to trust you?”
Leaning close to the bars of her cell, Zaro’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Because, for now, our goals align.”
He turned to leave, but Gisela’s voice stopped him in his tracks. “What do you want me to do? I’m a little stuck in here, if you haven’t noticed.”
“I want you to stop trying to freeze your shackles off,” he said, “and wait to be moved.”