Page 28

A hush fell over us, sharp as glass. The silence wasn’t empty—it pressed in from every angle, thick and breathless. Cordelia’s painted eyes seemed to shimmer in the flickering light, no longer passive—but aware.

Bethany crossed her arms. “So let me get this straight. Your father—this all-knowing, all-powerful puppeteer—just happens to have insight into a murder that happened decades ago?” Her brow arched. “How convenient.”

Samael’s jaw twitched, the faintest crack in his composure. “My father doesn’t believe in convenience,” he said coldly. “He trades in truths most people spend their lives trying to ignore.”

He stepped closer. His voice dipped low—velvet over steel, threading like smoke along the curve of my neck.

“The real question is—are you ready to hear them?”

Bethany cleared her throat, snapping the moment like a thread.

“Not to interrupt your cryptic villain monologue,” she said, pointing to the edge of the frame, “but… does anyone else notice that ?”

She gestured toward the bottom-right edge of the portrait, where the canvas shimmered faintly—like disturbed water, rippling in slow motion.

I moved closer, drawn by instinct. My heart pounded.

The Raven’s Echo pulsed fiercely against my skin, its heat pressing into my chest.

“Do you dare dive into the turbulent waters of reality, Elvana? What sacrifices are you prepared to make for this perilous game you’re entangled in?”

My breath hitched, my lips parted—half gasp, half question. The warning curled around my thoughts like smoke. But I didn’t retreat. My fingers twitched with the need to reach out. To touch. To know.

“Elvana, wait—” Lydia’s voice broke behind me, too late.

My fingertips met the canvas.

A jolt of electricity shot through my palm, and the corridor around us dissolved into darkness. For a heartbeat, there was nothing—no sound, no sensation, no light.

Then, as suddenly as it had vanished, the world returned.

But it was not the same corridor we had been standing in moments before.

We found ourselves in a small circular chamber, suffused with the dim, flickering glow of dozens of enchanted candles.

Wax dripped onto tarnished silver holders.

The scent of aged parchment, ink, and something faintly floral—lavender or myrrh—hung thick in the air, saturated with the weight of forgotten knowledge.

Ancient bookshelves curved along the chamber walls, their wooden frames warped with time yet standing resolute.

Tomes bound in deep indigo, rich crimson, and timeworn black crowded the shelves.

Some lay open on tables or scattered across the floor, their pages delicate, filled with dense script, illuminated sigils, and delicate ink sketches of artifacts that looked eerily familiar.

The floor was layered in ornate rugs—deep gold and emerald threads woven into hypnotic patterns beneath the candlelight.

Against one wall, a pair of velvet couches—crimson, slightly frayed at the edges—flanked a massive wooden desk strewn with scattered notes and a single glass inkwell, its contents long dried.

I stepped forward cautiously, my pulse a steady drum in my ears. The walls weren’t just lined with books. Notes had been pinned haphazardly between the shelves, some layered over one another like a palimpsest of obsession. The ink had faded in places, but the words remained legible:

“History will repeat itself.”

“The amulets must be destroyed.”

“Who killed Cordelia?”

A chill skated down my spine. I reached out to touch one of the parchment slips, and the candle beside it guttered—its flame shrinking before flaring violently.

Leander let out a low whistle behind me. “I’m guessing this room isn’t on any official library maps?”

Bethany drifted toward the large oak desk at the center of the room, her fingers trailing reverently along its edge before settling on an open book.

“This has to be her handwriting,” she murmured, her brows knitting as her eyes skimmed the page. “Cordelia’s.”

She reached for another journal nearby, thumbing through it quickly.

“This one’s different. Different ink. Different hand.” Her voice dropped. “Someone else kept writing. Someone continued her work.”

Near the entrance, Lydia stood perfectly still, turning in a slow, quiet circle. Her eyes were wide, drinking in the room with reverence.

“This isn’t just a hidden study,” she whispered. “This was a sanctuary. A place for research—private, protected, sacred.”

Samael had said nothing—until now.

He stepped toward the bookshelves, his movements deliberate. His fingers ghosted over the worn leather spines before pulling free a thick volume bound in deep green. The cover bore a sigil—embossed and intricate.

One I recognized.

It matched the one I’d found in my mother’s things.

“Cordelia Vale wasn’t just a professor,” Samael said quietly, the weight in his voice impossible to miss. “She was a seeker of truths no one wanted revealed.”

He turned toward me, and when his eyes met mine, something passed between us—unspoken but undeniable.

They were dark, unreadable, and far too knowing.

“And it seems,” he added, voice low, “she left us a trail to follow.”

My heart pounded as I turned fully to face him, the heat rising in my chest too tangled to name. My voice shook—equal parts fury and fear.

“Sam, where do your loyalties lie?”

The words snapped through the charged stillness.

“You said you wanted to prevent a tragedy, but everything you’ve done—everything you’ve said —makes it harder to believe you’re someone who can be trusted.”

Silence settled over the room, brittle and breathless.

Leander shifted beside Lydia, his posture stiff, uncertain.

Lydia’s wide eyes flicked between us, her thoughts racing just behind her furrowed brow.

Bethany stood still as stone, her arms crossed, her wariness sharp as a drawn blade.

Samael’s lips curved into a slow, practiced smile—but a flicker of something sharper flared behind his eyes.

“I assure you, little raven,” he said smoothly, “I have no intention of using the amulets for myself.”

He stepped closer, voice even, but colder now—calculated.

“My father taught me that real power isn’t for conquest. It’s for preservation.”

He paused, the intensity in his gaze unwavering.

“But sometimes,” he added softly, “to preserve something… you have to be willing to let it burn first.”

My pulse thrummed painfully against my ribs. I wished, more than anything, that he wasn’t here. His presence in this sacred place, this secret haven, felt like a desecration. He will ruin everything. Twist what we find into something unrecognizable. Something dangerous.

The amulets are not tools. They’re warnings.

“Your father’s influence,” I scoffed, my voice low, flat. “Is that what guides you? What about Edric’s advice?”

I held his gaze, unflinching. “Keep your friends close…”

His jaw tightened—just enough to betray the hit. Something behind his eyes flared.

He stepped closer, the air between us charged and thin.

“I am not your enemy, Elvana,” he snapped, his voice cutting through the quiet like steel drawn from its sheath. “I seek knowledge—same as Cordelia did.”

His eyes darted toward the shelves, the room, the portrait watching us from the wall.

“I won’t let this sanctuary become another pawn in a war for power.”

But his words rang hollow. I remembered the whispered plotting, the way he watched from the shadows. He wants something—he always wants something.

Leander cleared his throat, the sound too loud in the thick quiet.

“Maybe,” he said carefully, “we all need to take a breath.”

His tone was diplomatic, meant to cool the heat simmering between us—but even he couldn’t mask the edge beneath it.

Lydia stepped forward, her voice soft but steady. “We’re here to uncover the truth,” she said. “Not chase power. These relics are too dangerous. Elle’s right—we need to know where everyone stands.”

Bethany crossed her arms, nodding firmly. “This isn’t just about Cordelia’s research. This is about Melanie . About Liam . Disappearances. Shadows. It’s all connected. There are no coincidences anymore.”

Samael’s gaze flickered.

Just for a heartbeat, the mask slipped. The charm faltered—his jaw clenched, something unreadable flashing in his eyes.

“I only seek to understand,” he said, though a new tension coiled beneath the words. “I don’t want to control the relics.”

He turned to me, and this time his voice was low, pointed.

“We share the same goal, little raven.”

He paused.

“They must be destroyed. ”

I studied him carefully, searching for even a flicker of sincerity. All I found was ambition—quiet, concealed, coiled like a snake behind his calm.

"For our sake," I murmured, more to myself than him, "I hope you truly mean that."

“Oh, how the tables have turned my dear Elvana, shall you trust the wolf in sheep’s clothing?”