Total pages in book: 214
Estimated words: 195876 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 979(@200wpm)___ 784(@250wpm)___ 653(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 195876 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 979(@200wpm)___ 784(@250wpm)___ 653(@300wpm)
“Come to me. Find me. Free me.”
"Fuck," I hiss, swiping at the cold sweat on my forehead. My hands are shaking.
The common room suddenly feels too exposed, too vulnerable.
I swear under my breath at how careless it was to fall asleep here with the book and key. Anybody could've stumbled in and taken them.
The thought sends a fresh wave of panic through my chest. I fold the key into a small square and tuck it into my bra, the paper scratchy against my skin. I clutch the unbound book in one white-knuckled hand and hurry back to my room, every shadow in the corridor making me jump in alarm.
I open the door quietly so I don't wake Mireen, whose gentle snores fill our small room. I slip the book under my mattress, checking twice to make sure it's completely hidden. I consider crawling into bed and getting much-needed sleep, but I know the nightmares will come back.
I'm not ready for them. My mind is too full of questions and fears, like a cauldron about to boil over.
Ambrose's warnings about Serena and Malakai echo in my mind alongside his revelations about rogue elementals. And I'm still thinking about the little I was able to decipher from the book.
If Lorkan Grace was so important, why have I never heard of him? But the answer seems obvious. It’s like Bastian said. Somebody destroyed all records of whatever happened. Of people like me.
I already knew being unbound was dangerous, but now my understanding runs deeper. Far deeper. Whatever I am is dangerous enough that someone tried to wipe all memory of people like me from history itself.
In other words, I shouldn’t exist. If the wrong person finds out I do, they’ll make me disappear. I have no doubt of it.
My room suddenly feels too small, the walls pressing in, Mireen's soft breathing too loud in my ears. I need air. I need space.
I slip out and make my way down the stairs of the water tower, the stone steps cold beneath my bare feet. The chilly autumn night air hits me like a slap when I step outside, raising goosebumps across my arms. I pull them tight against my body, but I don't turn back for a coat. The cold is grounding, real—something to focus on besides the chaos in my head.
The castle is different at night—hushed and watchful, shadows pooling in corners where torchlight can't reach. Every creak of ancient wood, every whisper of wind through stone corridors makes me flinch. I have no destination in mind, just the desperate need to move, as if I can outrun all the things that seem to be chasing me. All the dangers closing in from every possible angle.
My feet carry me upward, through rarely used passages and narrow staircases, until I find myself at the top of the western wall. The air here is crisp with the last gasp of summer, warm days giving way to cold nights.
I give that a moment's thought, because the idea of seasons continuing to change and the world going on, even while I'm trapped in these murderous walls is strange and alien. It was the peak of summer when I volunteered for selection. I was sweating that day, the sun beating on my exposed neck as I stood in the town square, wondering if I would actually do it this year.
And now I’m here. The leaves will fall soon, and life outside these walls carries on, oblivious to our struggles here. On the outside, passing weeks meant shifting where we looked for fish and what we could catch. It meant summer festivals, fall ceremonies, the harbor games that came every spring. Here, though?
Each new day only means I’ve survived a little while longer. Each new day brings the threat of approaching danger, like Confluence Day, which keeps creeping toward us like a prowling beast.
I pull my arms tighter around myself, suppressing a sudden shiver that has nothing to do with the bite in the air, the reality of it all sinking into my bones.
From here, I can see all four elemental towers glowing in the darkness. They’re all as beautiful as they are strange. With enough power, primals can apparently imbue objects with magic, which is how they were constructed centuries ago.
I'm halfway along the raised castle wall, hand trailing idly on the waist-high wall that's the only thing standing between myself and a hundred-foot drop, when I notice I'm not alone.
Raith stands at the edge, his scarred profile outlined against the night sky. He doesn't turn at my approach, though I know he hears me. His hands rest on the stone, shoulders rigid with tension, muscles coiled tight beneath his thin shirt.
For a moment, I consider retreating. Whatever brought him here in the middle of the night is his business, not mine. But something stops me—maybe the way his knuckles have gone white where they grip the wall, or the haunted set of his jaw.