Vengeance

Chapter 11

We stalk through the castle’s labyrinthine corridors, silent as shadows woven into the stone itself. Every step is deliberate, every movement a whisper, every breath held on the knife’s edge of discovery. The air here is thick with age and secrets, clinging to my lungs like damp cobwebs. The high walls loom close, suffocating in their weight, their torchlit sconces spilling firelight that twists into monstrous shapes. The shadows stretch unnaturally long, clawing across the floor, reaching for me with skeletal fingers as though eager to drag us into the depths.

Ewen moves ahead of me with unearthly poise, his raven-dark eyes sweeping every angle, his presence steady and unyielding. In the heavy silence, his calm is an anchor against the pounding of my own heart. The sound of it is deafening in my ears, a brutal reminder of the danger we tempt with each stolen step.

We take one final turn, and there—at last—the massive wooden door leading to the outer gardens looms at the end of the passageway. Freedom breathes on the other side, cold night air waiting to wash away the stench of stone and rot. My hand rises, trembling, toward the iron handle.

Then I freeze.

A voice cleaves through the stillness like a blade drawn across flesh. Cold. Commanding. Merciless.

“What do you mean you cannot find the girl? She cannot have gotten far! Use the mother if you must—but I want Calista found!”

The name rips through me like lightning. My chest seizes, breath faltering as I turn, and my gaze lands on him.

The world shatters.

The sight of the man is a dagger to my soul, slicing through layers of carefully buried silence and restraint. Something splinters inside me, and memory comes rushing in, merciless and unbidden. I see fire. A crude wooden stage lit by the glow of torches. The acrid stench of oil choking the air. Two figures kneel, shackled in chains—bruised, bloodied, broken. A man and a woman. And looming above them, the man with the cruel voice, his hand raised high, sword catching the firelight in a burning arc as it fell—

“Master.”

Ewen’s voice slams through the vision, sharp and grounding, echoing across our link. My chest heaves as though I’ve surfaced from drowning. “We must move before the guards take notice.”

I blink hard, forcing myself back into the present. The stone walls return, the torchlight flickers, the air tastes of smoke and mildew again. My knees nearly buckle, but I push forward.

We move swiftly, like hunted creatures desperate for cover, slipping through the door into the night. Cold air rushes against my skin, blessedly fresh, though the gardens themselves stretch before us like a labyrinth of shadow and silver. The hedges whisper in the wind, their dark silhouettes sharp against the pale wash of moonlight.

Relief stirs within me, but it is fragile, fleeting—like glass on the verge of shattering.

We weave through narrow paths, staying low, wings of darkness shielding our passage. But then—sudden movement. A guard steps directly into our path. My heart slams against my ribs, breath strangled in my throat. I flatten myself into the hedge, the leaves clawing against my arms as I will my body to vanish into the darkness.

He lingers. Searching. His eyes sweep the path, too close, too sharp. My lungs ache with the need to breathe. Finally—finally—he turns away. His footsteps fade into the night.

Only then do I dare inhale again.

The palace gates rise ahead, black and foreboding against the silvered sky. Beyond them—freedom. Beyond them, the town’s slumbering streets and the promise of safety. My pace quickens, but the tremor inside me grows. My magic—always there, steady and bright—now flickers at the edges. The threads unravel, weakened by exhaustion, fear, and the lingering weight of those visions.

And then—warmth.

Ewen’s hand closes firmly over mine. His touch steadies me, his voice brushing against my mind, low and urgent: We need to hurry. Your magic is faltering. Focus. Steady your breath, still your thoughts. Elric and the others are waiting in the forest. We cannot fail now.

I nod once, forcing the storm inside me to quiet, narrowing my world into a single point: forward. Step. Step. Away.

Hela falls into step beside me, her silver hair catching faint glimmers of moonlight, her arm wrapped around the man—supporting his faltering weight. She meets my gaze briefly, a silent acknowledgement, before quickening her stride.

The town passes in a blur—shuttered windows, crooked chimneys, silent cobbled alleys. And then the forest embraces us, its canopy swallowing the moonlight whole.

The moment the shadows close around us, my magic collapses. It falls away like shattered glass, and I stumble to my knees, the earth cold and unyielding beneath me. My breaths come ragged, shallow, my chest burning with emptiness.

“For one still learning,” Hela says, her tone carrying both reluctant admiration and something sharper, “you wield power well, child. Zion—” she tilts her head toward the man, pale and unconscious against the roots of a tree “—even with the best tutors, took years to command his gifts. His father sent him to the Aurelian Academy the moment his god-mark appeared. He was their brightest pupil.” A shadow crosses her face, a bitter smile twisting her lips. “And look at him now.”

My gaze drifts to him—messy golden hair falling over his brow, his chest rising in shallow rhythm. And still, when my eyes linger, something deep inside me stirs. Recognition. Not of memory, but of soul—an invisible tether that hums when I look at him. As though we have always known each other, even when we had not yet met.

But how could that be? I have never left this kingdom.

The thought has no time to settle. A rustling splits the silence, and from the underbrush emerge Lettie, Elric, and Arianna.

“Thank the stars,” Lettie breathes, rushing forward, relief written across her face—until her eyes fall on my mother. Her voice cracks. “Sweet child… you made it back—and with your—” Her words crumble into silence, grief choking her throat.

Ewen is already at my mother’s side, golden runes spiraling from his hands, light flickering across his furrowed brow as he channels healing into her broken body.

Elric’s gaze snaps from me to Luka and Hela. His hand flies to the hilt of his blade, steel whispering as it shifts. “Who are they?”

Hela steps forward, instantly protective, her stance sharp as a drawn sword.

Before Elric can unsheathe his blade fully, I catch his arm. My voice is firm, steady. “They were prisoners, too. Hela is Zion’s star bond, just as Ewen is mine. Something in me knew we had to save them. They are not our enemies.”

Tension crackles, a taut line between us. Elric’s eyes bore into mine, suspicion heavy. After a long, suffocating moment, he relents, lowering his hand—but not his mistrust. “Fine. But if they so much as breathe wrong—”

“They won’t,” I cut in.

Hela’s smirk is thin, humorless. “You’ve nothing to fear from us. Our magic is gone—bound, thanks to your king.”

Her words hit like a blade to the ribs. “Bound?” My voice shakes. “By my king?”

She nods, silver hair shimmering with the movement. “The king invited Zion to a private audience. Said he wished to discuss magic—opening a branch of the Aurelian Academy here in Lorvette. But it was all a lie. The tea he served us was laced with a curse—chains woven into our very veins. He stripped us of our gifts, then threw us into his dungeons like traitors.”

Her eyes narrow, voice lowering, each word a dagger. “That was five years ago.”

My stomach twists violently. Five years—five years of silence, chains, and shadows. Five years of being severed from the very core of who they were.

Anger rises in me, cold and steady, sharp as tempered steel. “Is there a way to break it? Can I unbind you?”

Hela studies me, her moonlit eyes unreadable. At last, something softens in them—barely. “There is a way,” she says slowly. “But it is not a burden I would place upon your shoulders.”

I kneel before her, taking her hand, steady as flame. “Tell me.”

Her jaw tightens, as though the words themselves are shackles she must break. And then, with the weight of inevitability, she says:

“Kill the king.”