Chapter 7: Welcome Home
1877 Words
The car stops.
I don’t get out right away.
The castle is bigger than I thought. Not a house. Not a mansion. A castle. Stone walls fifty feet high. Iron gates with a wolf carved into them, teeth bared. Torches line the walls even though it’s morning. Fire never goes out here, Mara told me once. Old law. King’s fire must always burn.
Guards still kneel in the courtyard. They have been kneeling since we arrived.
Caelan gets out. Walks around. Opens my door.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
No. My palm still burns from where I cut it. My eyes still hurt from the silver light. My head hurts from Lyra shouting and then going quiet.
“No,” I say. Honest. “But I’m here.”
He nods. Like that answer is enough. He doesn’t touch me. He steps back and lets me get out myself.
I step onto stone. My flip-flops slap. Loud.
The guards look up at the sound. Then down again fast when they see my eyes. Brown now. Normal. But they remember the silver.
Mara, the older one, appears from the main doors. She wears black uniform, neat. She bows to me, not to Caelan.
“Miss Shaw,” she says. “Your room is ready.”
“Thank you,” I say. My voice is small in this big place.
Caelan starts to walk. I follow. Rhea follows me. I can feel her without looking. Cold spot on my back.
Don’t let her behind you, Lyra says. She woke up again. Quiet voice. She liked to use knives.
Great.
We go inside. The doors are huge. Wood as thick as my arm. They close behind us with a boom that shakes dust from the ceiling.
Inside is warm. Too warm after the rain. Fires in big stone fireplaces. Rugs on floors. Scent of cedar and old books and meat cooking somewhere.
Staff line the halls. They don’t stare. They bow. Heads down. As I pass, not Caelan. That feels wrong.
“Stop that,” I whisper to Caelan.
“Stop what?”
“They’re bowing to me. Tell them to stop.”
“I can’t,” he says. “They feel what I felt. Original blood outranks everything. Even me.”
“That’s stupid.”
“That’s law,” Rhea says from behind. She says it sweet. “Older than his crown. Older than his grandfather’s cage.”
Caelan’s shoulders tighten at the word cage.
We climb stairs. Three floors. My legs hurt. The cut on my palm pulses with each step.
Third floor. East wing. The hall is empty. No guards here. No staff. Quiet.
“This wing was closed,” Mara says, nervous. “We opened it for you. For air.”
For distance, I think. Far from his room.
Caelan stops at a door. Big oak door with silver handle. He pushes it open.
“Welcome home,” he says. But he says it like a question.
I step in.
The room is beautiful. Stupid beautiful. Bigger than my whole apartment in Ashenwood. Bed in middle, big enough for four people, white sheets, soft pillows. Fireplace lit. Desk with books. Closet open, full of clothes that look my size. Bathroom door open, I can see a tub big enough to swim in.
And a window seat. With blankets.
I could breathe here. If not for—
My eyes catch it.
Headboard. Four bolts. Thick silver shackles. Bolted right into the carved wood. Old. Scratched. Used.
My stomach drops to floor.
Lyra goes silent. Then cold.
That is ours, she whispers. Not pissed. Scared. First time she sounds scared. That is from the mountain. Where he kept me. He kept those. For the next one.
I walk to the bed. Touch one shackle. Cold. Even through my good hand. Silver burns a little. The chain clinks.
“Who put these here?” My voice sounds far away.
Mara steps forward, pale. “Miss Shaw, this was always the Luna room. Since the first King. For containment, the records say. For safety during first shift. We didn’t think—”
“You didn’t think?” Caelan’s voice is low. Quiet. The kind of quiet that makes rooms colder than shouting.
He moves. Faster than I can see. He grabs the shackle. Rips.
Wood splinters. The shackle tears off. He throws it across room. It hits stone wall and cracks it.
Second shackle. Rip. Throw.
Third. Fourth. Rip. Rip. Throw. Throw.
Bed frame is ruined now. Holes where bolts were. White sheets torn.
He stands there, breathing hard, hands bleeding a little from silver burn. He didn’t even flinch.
Rhea leans against the door frame. Watching. Smiling.
“Chivalry,” she says. “How modern.”
I look at the holes. At his bleeding hands. At the shackles on floor.
He hurt himself for us, Lyra says. Soft. He burned his hands to break our chains.
Caelan looks at me. His grey eyes are dark. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know they were here. This wing was locked before my grandfather died. I never came in.”
“Why keep a Luna room with shackles?” I ask. My throat is tight.
“Because my grandfather caged Lyra,” he says. No lie. No excuse. “And when she killed him and ran, he told his son to be ready for when she came back. Every King since kept this room ready. Chains on bed. Silver on windows. I should have checked. I should have—”
“You burned the cage yesterday,” I say. Quiet. “The ruins.”
“Yes.”
“And now you ripped these off.”
“Yes.”
I nod. I walk to window seat. Sit. My legs finally give out. I hug knees.
“I’m not sleeping in that bed,” I say.
“You don’t have to,” he says fast. “I’ll get new bed. Or you can have my room. I’ll take this one. Or—”
“I’ll sleep on floor,” I say. “Like last night.”
He looks hurt. Then he nods. “Okay. Floor is okay.”
Mara steps forward, hands twisting. “I will get blankets. And fresh sheets. And remove—” She gestures to shackles on floor.
“No,” I say. “Leave them.”
Everyone looks at me.
“Leave them there,” I say. “So I remember what happens when Kings think ‘safety’ means chains.”
Caelan’s jaw tightens. But he nods to Mara. “Leave them.”
Rhea pushes off door frame. Walks to window. Picks up a book from desk. Flips through.
“Touching,” she says. “Really. But you know, sister, he still built this room. Even if he didn’t know about chains, he kept wing locked. Ready for you.”
“He kept it locked to keep people out,” Caelan says. Sharp.
“Did he?” Rhea looks at me. Silver eyes shining. “Or to keep you in, once you arrived?”
She wants you to doubt him, Lyra says. That’s how she works. Sister’s game.
“I know what she’s doing,” I tell Lyra out loud.
Caelan looks confused. “What?”
“Rhea. She wants me scared.” I look at Rhea. “It won’t work. I’ve been scared my whole life. I’m good at it.”
Rhea’s smile drops a little.
I stand. Walk to Caelan. Stop one foot away. I don’t touch him. But I look at his hands. Bleeding from silver.
“You’re hurt,” I say.
“Fine,” he says.
“You’re not fine. You burned yourself.” I look at Mara. “First aid kit?”
Mara runs out.
We stand there. Awkward. The shackles on floor between us like a line.
Rhea watches. Too interested.
Mara comes back with box. I take it. I grab Caelan’s hand. His hand is big. Rough. Warm. He lets me.
I clean blood. He doesn’t make sound. But his fingers twitch when antiseptic hits.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
“Don’t be.” His voice is low.
I wrap bandage. Not pretty. But tight.
“There,” I say. Let go fast.
He looks at his hand. At my bandage. Then at me. Something in his eyes softens.
“Thank you,” he says.
“Don’t thank me. You ripped my bed apart.” I try to joke. My voice shakes a little.
He almost smiles. Small. Real. Not King smile.
Rhea claps once. Loud. “Lovely. First aid. So domestic. But sister, you should know, these shackles aren’t the only things bolted in this castle.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
She drops book. Walks to closet. Opens it. Inside, behind clothes, a second door. Small. Iron. Silver lock.
“This castle has many Luna rooms,” she says. “All with same design. Your King didn’t build them. But he didn’t destroy them either.”
Caelan stares at door. “I didn’t know that door was there.”
“No one did,” Mara whispers. “That part was sealed fifty years ago.”
Lyra goes cold again. Open it.
“No,” I say out loud.
Rhea touches lock. “Want to see what else your grandfathers kept for us, sister?”
“No,” Caelan says. Sharp. King voice. “We don’t open sealed rooms today. Ella needs rest.”
He says it like order. For me.
Rhea pulls hand back. Smiles. “Tomorrow then.”
She leaves. Bare feet silent on stone.
Mara also leaves after bringing extra blankets. She takes one look at shackles on floor and hurries out.
Then it’s just me and Caelan in room with ruined bed.
He picks up blankets. Puts them on floor by window seat. Makes little nest. Like he did for himself in hall last night.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say.
He stands. “I’ll be in hall. Door open or closed?”
“Open,” I say before I think. Then, “Closed. Open a crack. I don’t know.”
He nods. “Crack. I’ll be right out there.”
He goes to door. Stops.
“Ella,” he says. Doesn’t turn.
“What?”
“Are you afraid of me?”
I think about it. About bullet he took. About shackles he ripped with bare hands. About him sitting in rain all night at motel because I said no.
“No,” I say. Honest. “I’m afraid of what everyone wants me to be.”
He nods. Opens door.
I sit on floor blankets. Look at shackles on floor. At holes in bed.
I hear his chair creak in hall as he sits.
I’m safe. Sort of. In castle with locked rooms and hidden doors and sister who wants throne.
I close eyes.
We should open that iron door, Lyra whispers.
We should sleep, I whisper back.
We should do both.
I almost laugh. Then I hear it.
Not hall. Not castle.
From inside closet. Behind iron door.
Click.
Like lock turning by itself.
Bed has shackles bolted to it.
- Writer
