Jasken’s honey eyes drop before his head dips behind the door. “Vestele!”
I cringe.
He has quite the pair of lungs.
A woman with wiry hair and a wiggly spine hobbles through the opening—face pinched, cheeks red, hair pulled into such a tight upsweep that it almost smooths the years etched around her pale blue eyes.
“Anika!Kvath be damned, where thehellhave you been?”
Her voice boxes my ears, but it’s her stare that really stings—two icy pins stabbing at me and the child.
She yanks Anika through the doors, and the poor thing barely has a chance to peep over her shoulder at me before she disappears.
When I try to follow, Jasken slides sideways, blocking my line of sight—a mammoth, impenetrable wall. By the way his cheeks have rounded out, I can tell he’s smiling somewhere beneath all those wiry bristles.
I’d smack that smirk right off his gruff face if he weren’t so damn tall.
I frown, stamping my fists on my hips. “You take your job far too seriously.”
“So you keep telling me,” he says, tipping his head. “Orlaith.”
I sigh, mimicking the action, hands falling heavy at my sides. “Jasken.”
Thus ensues the walk of shame.
Not my first, and I doubt it will be my last.
Castle Noir is brimming with secrets, but most of them are not my own. They’re Rhordyn’s or his ancient predecessors who are never talked about.
This one, however, belongs to me.
The door is old, the worn wood and rusted lock a testament to its age. A lock that was a terrible match for my hairpin and teeth-gritting determination when I first stumbled upon this place ten years ago.
I lift a flaming torch from one of the sconces and pry the door open. The darkness that pours out seems to howl at me, making my flame flicker as I peer into the throat of a gloomy passageway.
Whispers.
Though this entire castle is ancient, this place somehow feelsmoreso.Like the floor felt the wear of decades of feet before the door was locked, the passage forgotten.
At least until I came along.
I step into the hallway and use the flaming beacon to light the first sconce, illuminating a section of my masterpiece.
This place curls into the moody guts of the castle, but I’m not sure how far down. The further you go, the more oppressive the darkness gets.
Thecolderit gets.
I’ve yet to make it to the end.
I walk fifteen steps into the sweeping hallway that digs into the earth before igniting the second sconce, illuminating the wall to my left and giving lustrous life to another section of my mosaic.
It’s taken me the better part of ten years to paint this mural, stone by stone, each a separate work of art. Small, whispered stories I’ve brushed on the rocks that piece together and form bigger, overriding pictures I often try to ignore.
I keep going, igniting more sconces, the air temperature dropping so much the fifth barely gifts me enough glow to work with. I walk until I’m standing on the precipice between shadow and light, staring into an ocean of black that looks like it could swallow me whole.
Dropping to my knees, I lay the torch next to me and open my bag, digging past the squeaking mouse to a stone wrapped in cheesecloth to protect the whisper from getting damaged during transport.
I unwrap the layers and trace the delicate brushstrokes that make up a young boy sitting cross-legged on the ground, surrounded by a bed of black blooms. White sparkles decorate his eyes, and his hair is a twisted mess.
