Chapter 32
The crunch of bones rebounded off stone. Amalia’s mind braced for the answering screams—she always did—but none came. Only the wet, nauseating sound of flesh meeting flesh slid down the corridor and pooled at her feet.
From her cell, she could make out almost nothing. The torches along the hall burned a jaundiced yellow, too dim and sickly to carve Albert’s silhouette from the dark. Chains whispered when someone shifted. Water tapped somewhere, an offbeat metronome.
For a breath, it held. Then a voice split it like an arrow.
“Where is the Primordial? WHERE IS RIVER?”
No answer. Time stretched thin as the words hung in the air. The pause legthened to a minute. Still, Albert did not yield. Amalia knew he had no answer, yet he never tried to lie, never reached for the easy shield of deception. It wasn’t in him to bend that way.
A latch clicked. The cell door in the next room snicked shut, and the thud of metal-heeled boots carried down the passage as the interrogator withdrew, satisfied—or simply tired. The night’s terror receded by inches, as tides do.
Silence fell again, real this time. Not the kind that crawled, but the kind that lets a person breathe. It settled on her shoulders with surprising gentleness, and for once its presence didn’t send shivers racing down her spine. She let her head rest against cold stone and counted the beats of her heart until they sounded like her own.
-
The cell was cold, but the blood pooling beneath his cheek held a stubborn warmth, sticky against stone, even as it leaked from his split lip and broken jaw. He tasted iron. Swallowing hurt; breathing did, too.
Time didn’t move so much as stretch. Every ache lengthened into the next until pain felt like the only measure left. The cell—and the runes laced through its mortar—pressed down on him, smothering his healing, thinning his connection to Tessa to a thread so fine he almost couldn’t feel it. He knew he wasn’t alone. He felt alone anyway.
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
Out of the quiet, a soft voice rose. “Albert. Are you okay?”
He couldn’t answer. The bones in his face argued with sound. He scraped together what he could—any proof he was still here—and forced a noise through his teeth.
“Hmh.” Even that tiny effort sent fresh blood spilling, hot and impatient. But at least she’d heard him. At least she knew.
A low thrum rolled back along the bond, Tessas presence, steady, stubborn, almost happy in its certainty. She’d understood.
The other voice returned, stronger now that recognition had settled. “Good. Just keep it strong. We’ll make it.”
The words weren’t comfort, not in the usual way. But the fact that she still believed—still chose to—gave him something to hold. A handhold in wet rock, small and rough and real enough to keep him from slipping. He clenched his jaw—careful—found the thread to Tessa again, and held on.
-
River’s initial plan had thinned to a ghost. Royal backing was supposed to let him move on Lucius before the strike—before the Blightborn swelled with strength. Instead, it was just the two of them again: Calira and River. Since returning to Norvil, their numbers hadn’t grown; they’d bled away. Unable to do anything meaningful against Lucius and his gathering army, the ground had shifted beneath him.
First, save his friends. Then, build a better plan, something that could still hold the world together. And if he couldn’t save everyone, he would save the ones he loved. It sounded cruel in his own head; it also sounded true. Realism, ugly but necessary.
“I agree.” Calira’s voice cut clean through the spiral of despair and tugged him back into the room.
“We’ve got almost everything we need,” he said after a beat. “Do we start laying the groundwork?”
She hesitated—rare for her. “I don’t think so. We need Virella and William’s help. They know the castle.”
He’d thought the same and pushed it away. Their family was already under the knife; asking more could carve deeper. It was risky, maybe unfair. But he knew they would need it—need them—if any of this was going to work.
-
Sylas sat on his throne above the low world, watching the humans move like pieces on wet stone. His champion advanced—hesitant, wrong-footed by the task. Every choice came a breath late; every feint landed half a beat off. They were bound by oaths not to interfere, the old law, iron and cold, and still his fingers twitched upon his armrest. He could tilt the board with a whisper. He could make the path straighter, easier.
Instead, he held himself still and let the urge drain. The decisions were unpolished, yes, but they were his. Let the mortal learn or burn. That was the rule. What had once been their dream. Today it tasted sour in his mouth.
