His father barely acknowledged him. “Alright.”
That was it. No words of approval. No words of wisdom. Just another short, indifferent reply before the conversation was over. So Alaric turned on his heel and walked out, his stomach twisting in knots.
This should have felt like a triumph. Instead, it felt like he had already lost something he could never get back.
***
Cillian wiped the sweat from his brow, his fingers trembling as he shook out the pain in his cramped hand. His knuckles ached from gripping the graphite too tightly, pressing into the paper with manic precision. The lead smudged across his palms, dark streaks of obsession staining his skin. Still, he sketched. Again and again.
Tree.
Moon.
Eyes.
The images bled across countless pages, layering over one another in a frenzied haze. His vision blurred as exhaustion clawed at him, but he refused to surrender. He couldn’t. Sleep had abandoned him, replaced by an insatiable need to understand. He was chasing a pattern, a meaning that was just beyond his reach, lurking in the fog of his restless mind. The scratching of graphite against parchment was the only sound in his room, rhythmic and urgent.
Earlier, he had read the book Evelyne gave him, which initially seemed like a simple children’s fairytale. He hadn’t intended to get so caught up in it.
A light to purify the darkness.
A keeper, tasked with balance.
A strength to ward off the shadows.
At first, it read like nonsense, riddled with vague allegories of good and evil. But the more he read, the more the words twisted in his mind. There were no illustrations or symbols to link it to his visions. Only relentless repetition, as though the book itself were trying to force a message into his head. But what?
With a frustrated growl, he slammed the graphite down and yanked the book from Velenshire off the shelf once more. A different kind of story—one not of light and virtue, but of magic. Ancient forces that had once pulsed through these lands. Witches and beings that could bend nature to their will. Could there be truth in the tales? The book’s constant pull could not be mere coincidence. Perhaps it was the history he must come to understand before attempting to decipher the riddles.
He resumed his sketch of the withered tree, its bone-like branches etched from memory. It felt more important than the others, lingering in his mind for its eerie resemblance to the Solwyn Tree of Velenshirehe’d seen in the book. It was known as a tree full of life and beauty, yet he had no memory of encountering it when he’d been there.
Every time he closed his eyes, she returned. The woman. The beautiful, cruel woman. But, her presence no longer felt unwelcome. He’d grown accustomed to her, even finding solace in the silent moments where she loomed. It was better than being alone in his room, wasting away with thoughts he couldn’t control. Tonight, she remained absent. In her place came the blackness, like a beast that had waited long enough. It slipped through the cracks of his mind and struck true. And then, nothing.
***
When he woke, he wasn’t in his bed. He wasn’t even in his chair. The cold, hard tile of the bathing chamber floor pressed against his cheek, the damp scent of water and stone filling his nostrils. His body ached, and his arms trembled as he pushed himself up. Confusion seized him with unrelenting force as he struggled to understand how he had gotten here.
His hand moved instinctively to his forehead, where a sharp pain flared. His fingers came away slick with blood. A gash. Fresh.
Shit.
The nausea struck suddenly, a wave of sickness rolling through his gut. The room swayed around him, and he barely reached the water bucket before he retched, clutching its rim with white-knuckled desperation. His body convulsed against the emptiness inside him, heaving until nothing remained.
He wiped his mouth with his hand, staring blankly ahead. His mind felt fractured, edges blurred, memories slipping through his fingers like sand.
He had been sketching. And then… nothing. No visions. No whispers. Just an expanse of endless black.
What had happened to him?
His breaths came quick and sharp as he pressed a damp washcloth to his forehead, barely feeling the sting. His reflection in the mirror startled him—dark circles under his eyes, pale skin drawn tight over sharp cheekbones. He hardly recognized himself.
Something wasn’t right.
Dragging himself back to his room, he collapsed onto the bed. His body had finally reached its limit, and exhaustion yanked his eyes shut.
This time, sleep did not evade him.
It swallowed him whole.
