Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 119694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
The words tear out of me—raw and desperate. They echo in the vast space over and over, growing fainter every time.
As the echoes die, I strain my ears listening. The silence presses in harder— thick and suffocating. I can hear my own breathing now—too fast, too loud.
Then—a sound. It’s not a voice…not quite.
It sounds like a faint groan of stone shifting somewhere deep within the Spires.
I freeze as the air shivers, just barely, like a breath passing over my skin. I don’t see magic—but I feel it—a distant tug low in my chest, like a thread pulling taut.
This way, I think and I’m not sure where the thought came from. I can feel it now—the connection between me and Lucian. It’s so faint it’s barely there, but when I concentrate, I can sense it pulling me.
I follow the sensation down a side corridor I don’t remember ever taking before. The walls here are narrower, the ceiling lower. The dust is thicker—my shoes scuff through it with every step.
At the end of the corridor, half-hidden behind a fallen tapestry, I find a door.
It’s not grand like all the other doors in the Spires. It’s old and wooden and reinforced with iron bands rusted nearly black.
I push it open—it creaks like a door in a haunted house. Inside it, a stairwell yawns upward.
My stomach drops as I look up…and up and up.
The stairs spiral endlessly above me, disappearing into darkness so thick it swallows the light spilling in from the corridor. The stone steps are uneven, worn down by countless feet over what must be centuries.
I don’t know what this passage is, but I can tell that it’s ancient…and that no one has used it in a long, long time.
I crane my neck. How many stories is it to the penthouse?
I don’t know. But I do know one thing—I won’t stop until I find Lucian.
I hitch my skirt up, grip the railing, and take the first step…then the next, and the next.
My calf muscles start to burn almost immediately. My breath comes faster. The stairwell is cold—the air thin and stale, but beneath it all I can feel something else—him.
Lucian is waiting for me. Faint and fading but still there.
I hope.
“I’m coming,” I whisper fiercely into the dark. “Just hold on.”
And I keep climbing.
73
Jules
I lose track of time.
The stairs stretch on and on, curling upward like some cruel joke, but I don’t stop. I don’t let myself think about how my legs shake or how my lungs burn. I climb and climb and climb, driven by one terrible certainty—
If I stop, Lucian will die.
I don’t know how I know that—I just do. And so I don’t stop.
The stairwell smells of dust and cold stone. My palms scrape the railing, gritty with neglect. Sweat dampens my skin beneath my clothes and my muscles burn, but I welcome the pain—it reminds me I’m alive. That I’m still moving. That I haven’t failed him yet.
And then at last—at last—the stairs end.
I stagger onto the top landing, my vision swimming, my heart hammering so hard it feels like it’s trying to break free of my ribs. Before me stands the entrance to the penthouse suite.
Lucian’s domain.
I push my way inside and find the same dusty neglect I’ve found everywhere else in the Spires.
The hallway beyond is long and silent—its once-luxurious carpets dulled with age and dust. The walls, once glowing faintly with torch-light and magic, are dark now. Empty…hollow. Like the rest of the Spires.
“Lucian?” I call, my voice breaking as it echoes down the corridor.
But I get no answer.
I move faster, peering into rooms as I pass. I see an abandoned sitting room, the chairs overturned and the fireplace cold…an office with papers scattered like dead leaves across the floor. Everywhere I look, I see signs of desertion and neglect. Everything looks left behind, as if the world inside the Crimson Spires simply… stopped.
My chest tightens with fear—where is he?
“Lucian!” I call again, louder this time, fear clawing up my throat.
Still nothing.
But then, at the very end of the hall, I finally see it—his bedroom.
The door stands slightly ajar but no light comes from within—it’s dark in there. My heart stutters in my chest as I hurry to push it open.
Inside I see the familiar gothic architecture—the high ceiling and plush carpets now coated in dust. The room is dim, the crimson floor-to-ceiling curtains drawn tight. The air smells faintly metallic, like old blood and dying magic. The massive bed dominates the space—and there, upon it, lies Lucian.
He looks pale…too pale.
His skin has lost its warmth, its color, and his dark hair spills across the pillow like ink against white linen. His chest rises and falls so slowly I almost miss it.
“Oh God,” I whisper, my legs nearly giving out beneath me.
I rush to his side and sink onto the bed, my hands trembling as I stroke his hair back from his face.