“Darkness,” her father said firmly.
Her mother inhaled and added, “Dark magic.”
Evelyne felt the ground shift beneath her, as though reality had warped instantly. Magic belonged to myths and fairytales—whispers meant for children, not something tangible or real. It couldn’t be. A disbelieving laugh nearly escaped her lips at the absurdity of their words, but the weight in their expressions, the unwavering certainty in their eyes, stole the breath from her lungs.
They weren’t joking. They weren’t mistaken. Theybelievedwhat they were saying, which terrified her more than anything.
Her father continued. “I’ve been trying to gather information quietly. Trade routes have gone dark. Spieswe’ve sent into the area do not return. And if they do, they can’t remember what they saw.” He hesitated. “Gaviel Stonebridge is sending Alaric to investigate.”
Evelyne flinched at the name, disgust and worry warring within her. She wanted to hate him for what he had done, but the thought of him being sent into something dangerous made her chest tighten.
“Why him?” she demanded.
“If men aren’t returning, why send Alaric?”
“Because we need answers, Evelyne. And Alaric has a way of getting them.”
Evelyne clenched her jaw, but her thoughts spun back to her brother. To the pages of symbols, to his disappearance.
“I fear dark magic is somehow connected to this,” Aron said, turning to Celeste. “To Cillian.”
“I’m going to find him,” Evelyne said.
“No, you are not,” her father snapped. “I will send men out to search.”
She turned on him. “I am done being kept blind to the truth. You lied to me—both of you.” Her voice trembled with anger as she pointed to her mother. “You will not tell me what I can or cannot do. I will find my brother.”
Her father rose and stepped forward, his face grave. “Evelyne, we have no idea what dangers are out there.”
“And what are you going to do about your son?” She grabbed a handful of Cillian’s sketches, shoving them toward him. “Look at his room! He wasn’t sick. He was hiding, struggling! And all this time, you suspected it might be magic, yet you stayed silent and let him believe he was broken.”
“I didn't know it was—”
A voice cut through the tension. “My lord.”
Their most seasoned and steadfast guard, Marcel, stood at attention, composed but edged with unease. He inclined his head respectfully to her father, then her mother,and finally to Evelyne.
“One of the younger guards noticed the glass foyer doors leading to the stone patio were open this morning,” he reported. “At first, he assumed the storm had blown them wide during the night. But after learning Lord Cillian never returned to his chambers, he returned to look closer.”
He hesitated, his gaze shifting between them before settling on Lord Duskwood. Evelyne barely breathed as she waited for him to continue.
“There are footprints in the mud,” Marcel finally said, his voice low. “Bare footprints leading into the trees.”
The words hit like a physical blow.
Barefoot. He was out there alone and barefoot. The storm must have masked his departure, if it had been his choice to leave.
“My lord, there is more. Before the path meets the trees, near the great standing stones, we found… something.”
Lord Duskwood narrowed his eyes. “Go on.”
Marcel drew in a steady breath. “It’s a sigil, carved into the largest stone—seared into its surface as if by some ancient… magic.”
For the first time, a brief change crossed Lord Duskwood’s face. His command was firm. “Gather the guards. Start searching immediately. Keep the estate under watch, and the moment anyone sees him, report to me.”
Evelyne’s hands trembled as she clutched the papers and books tighter against her chest, their weight pressing into her ribs. A sigil of ancient magic? How could they possibly know of such a thing? Questions swirled in her mind, but she couldn’t afford to linger. She wouldn’t.
“Take me,” she commanded, striding toward Marcel. “I will see it now.”
