Chapter 20
We file out of the processing chamber with no further comment, my heart still hammering. One of the bog fae follows us out, muttering something about recalibration as he hastily departs down a separate corridor. I'm so consumed by what just happened I barely hear the words.
I survived. Whatever Selen gave me masked my talent from the highest sensitivity scan.
The implications are staggering, and I struggle to even begin to process them.
Does this mean my magic on the whole was suppressed by the strange liquid, or is it just somehow hiding it?
Where or how did Selen get such a substance?
For that matter, I want to know where or how she got her mysterious green healing liquid too.
Zeriel walks close beside me, his expression controlled, but I catch the flash of doubt in his eyes again when they briefly lock on mine. I can almost read his thoughts: the scan should have detected something.
Selen strides ahead of us, her back ramrod straight, giving no indication she intends to explain anything, or even notices us behind her. She turns down another corridor without a backward glance, as if we're already forgotten.
I grip Zeriel's arm and tilt my head in Selen's direction, silently suggesting we follow her. His brow furrows, but I give a subtle shake of my head. Whatever game Selen is playing, it's too dangerous to discuss in open corridors.
After a moment's hesitation, Zeriel gives an almost imperceptible nod. He must suspect I have a fuller picture than him, and discovery’s worth sacrificing temporary control.
We fall back slightly, maintaining enough distance to avoid suspicion but close enough not to lose sight of Selen's silver-cropped head as she navigates the maze of passages.
I sense she knows we're following her. She never turns around, and her pace is deliberate, her path direct.
We descend another level, then turn down a corridor I recognize.
This is where Selen first brought me and the six other women—before the pit, before everything changed.
My suspicions are confirmed when she slips through a familiar doorway, leaving it ajar behind her.
I pause outside, now hesitant. I want answers from Selen, but I’d prefer to get them alone.
I don’t trust Zeriel to discuss what I want to with Selen in front of him.
His presence complicates things. I turn to him, about to attempt persuading him to wait outside for a minute, when Selen's sharp voice cuts through the silence.
“Enter, both of you, or go away. But don't hang out there like bone rats.”
I exchange a glance with Zeriel, whose jaw twitches at her tone. I don’t know why Selen wants Zeriel inside too, but for now I don’t push my own preference. I breathe in and open the door.
The office is exactly as I remember it: walls lined with shelves of books, anatomical diagrams of various dragon species pinned to boards, and the massive desk that dominates the center of the room. The air smells of parchment, ink, and something herbal I can't identify.
Selen sits behind her desk, hands folded before her, her gaze fixed on Zeriel with an unblinking scrutiny that feels more like dissection than observation. What is she seeing in him?
Zeriel pulls the door shut behind us, the soft click echoing in the quiet room.
“Sit,” Selen commands, gesturing to the two chairs positioned across from her desk.
I comply, perching on the edge of my seat. Zeriel lowers himself into the chair slowly, one knee angled out, his gaze flicking between me and Selen. If there’s uncertainty in him, it hides beneath layers of calculation.
“How is your training going, Champion?” Selen asks, adopting a more casual tone as she leans back in her seat, one finger toying with the edge of an anatomical diagram on her desk.
“Adequately,” Zeriel responds.
“Good.”
I look between the two of them, uncertain how much history they share, how well they know each other. Only surface acquaintance, I detect, which would make sense given that Selen’s jurisdiction is the female barracks.
“I believe my ward wanted to speak to you,” Zeriel continues, pinning me with a look.
“I see that,” Selen says, addressing me directly. She takes a sip from a cup on her desk, then raises her bright eyes to meet mine. “But I should be clear about something.”
I hesitate, wetting my lip. “What’s that?”
She plants her cup down and leans forward. “Answers to questions are earned.”
I frown deeply at her. “What do you mean?” I try to contain a flare of annoyance. I want to retort, Haven’t I done enough to earn them, after what you’ve already put me through?
“I mean that seeking them out is futile,” she replies calmly. “When the time’s right, you’ll know what you need to.”
The weight of silence presses between us as I stare back at her, wondering how so many words can say so little. “What time?” I ask, trying—and failing—to keep the irritation from my voice. “What does that even mean?”
Instead of answering, her attention returns to Zeriel.
She leans back in her chair, studying him with more apparent interest. “I’m curious, Champion, have you ever wondered why some people manifest magical abilities while others don't?” Every word feels carefully selected, weighed before it’s spoken.
And it’s almost word for word the question she asked me in the women’s baths. Why?
I watch Zeriel's face, catching the subtle tightening around his eyes. “Magic’s nothing but a defect,” he says flatly. “Like a warped bone or a spoiled crop. Dangerous when it grows in the wrong place.”
“Indeed,” Selen replies, her voice dropping slightly. “As some teach.”
Zeriel’s eyes pierce her. “What are you implying?”
“I'm not implying anything, Champion,” Selen replies, her gaze flicking briefly to me before settling back on Zeriel. “I merely wondered if you’ve ever entertained the notion that magic might be more common than we assume. That perhaps every fae is still born with the potential for it.”
He looks at her like this is some kind of test. I can’t tell if he’s already thought this through, or if he’s weighing it now. A slight tick in his jaw betrays tension.
Of course, he doesn’t take the bait, obviously assuming this is some kind of extended interrogation, after the detectors failed.
“Why would I have considered that?” he asks coldly.
Selen leans back in her chair, her tone almost casual.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe you’ve always felt it—that subtle sense that something’s missing.
Just out of reach, but there.” She pauses for a beat, watching Zeriel’s reaction.
Then her voice lowers. “I’m talking about birthright, Champion Caelith.
Power in your blood, waiting to be awakened. ”
I glance between them, suddenly understanding why Selen wanted Zeriel here. She’s dangling before him the one thing a champion might risk everything for: greater power. But for what purpose?
For the first time, Zeriel shifts in his seat, the stillness of a predator disturbed. His mask doesn’t crack—it sharpens. But his eyes… his eyes flare with something I’ve never seen there before: hunger.
Is he wondering, as I did, how much of his life has been built on lies?
And if Selen is trying to deliberately trigger people’s magic, she’s tempting their deaths. And yet, she helped me survive. Would she help Zeriel?
But still, for what purpose?
“Why are you asking these questions?” I interrupt, glaring at her.
A pause. “Because questions are doorways,” she says softly, after a beat, almost to herself. “And some doors aren’t meant to open until you’re ready to walk through them.”