Page 29

Everly

T he doors of the Sanctum opened with a heavy groan, the sound of ancient hinges and massive stone dragging across the silence in warning.

I swallowed another wave of panic, letting it settle like a stone in my stomach. It was a familiar feeling, at least, even if it did grow heavier by the hour.

Two white griffons flanked the entrance, silent and still.

They shimmered like snow under moonlight, far too pristine to be natural, and their long, sharp talons looked like they could carve through steel.

Pale blue sigils pulsed along their wings and chests, etched directly into skin and glowing up through their feathers.

As we approached, one dipped its head low. The other followed, crouching with a low, breathy chuff, less threat, more… acknowledgement, maybe? Deference, for the king at my side.

Draven didn’t react, didn’t break stride.

He just walked past them like he owned the Sanctum.

Technically, he did, I supposed. The structure itself belonged to Winter, and on some level, so did the fae who lived here.

But mages didn’t truly answer to one court or clan.

Seelie, Unseelie, they all answered to the Archmage.

Ice trailed from the hem of his cloak like a second shadow. The wolves moved with him, tails high and steps silent, though each of them shot a warning look toward the skybeasts.

I followed, unwilling to test the griffons’ patience, or hunger pangs, by being the lone straggler.

The air inside the Sanctum was painfully still. Frost and runes glimmered like diamonds from towering walls. It was somehow more open and more terrifying than the smaller shrines I had been to before.

Every stone was watching me, every echo as haunting as the Voidtouched.

And every single shards-damned heartbeat that thundered against my ribcage was more painful than the last.

A mage stepped forward from the shadows, wearing silken robes made of spidersilk. She had two black bands on her arm to show her rank. An apprentice, then.

Her skin was a mottled shade of blue-gray, bisected only by the white symbols tattooed above her brow and across her cheekbones, and like all mages, her head was bare. I blinked and suddenly I was twelve years old again.

I clenched my fists as pain lanced through me, deep within my chest, reverberating along my spine. It was so intense it momentarily knocked the air from my lungs.

Batty burrowed deeper into my cloak, her wings twitching against my side, but it gave me something to focus on. I ignored the sideways glances Draven was shooting my way, and instead focused on my skathyrn’s movements and the process of slowly breathing in and out.

Footsteps approached, soft and measured. A cluster of novice mages emerged from the corridor ahead, all swathed in layers of icy-blue robes and the kind of wide-eyed solemnity that spoke to a childhood free of adversity.

Free of the pain they would learn to inflict on others.

They bowed the moment they saw their king, touching fingers glowing faintly with mana to their foreheads in reverence.

“Your Majesty,” said the one in front. He was barely older than me and trying very hard not to trip over his own robes. “We weren’t expecting a royal visit.”

Draven blinked irritably. “I sent word to the Archmage.”

My stomach dropped like a rock in a frozen lake.

Oh good. Straight to the most terrifying fae. Why waste time?

The young mage’s face twisted into something apologetic. “He is not in residence, Majesty. The Archmage departed for the Glastmere Vaults last week.”

“Would you like us to prepare your rooms…” he trailed off, his eyes flitting uncomfortably to me. “The Archmage will return within the next couple of days. You are welcome to wait for him, or we could call for one of the Elders, instead?”

Draven looked at me. In question? To survey his problematic bride to assess whether or not an Elder would be sufficient for this sort of issue ?

My heartbeat raced even faster than before, my head spinning. I didn’t want to be here at all, so if he was looking for consent, he’d be waiting a long frost-damned time.

Draven pursed his lips like he had heard the thought before dipping his chin once.

“Then find us an Elder,” he said, directing his attention back to the novice.

He nodded, telling his friends he would meet up with them later, before gesturing for us to follow him to a massive hole in the center of the floor.

A winding staircase wound deep into the mountain.

So deep, I couldn’t see the bottom from here, only blue fae light dancing in between shadows that grew longer and darker the longer I looked.

We followed the eager young mage down the stairs, and I had the distinct sensation of being led into a crypt. Everything glistened faintly with power. The air hummed like it was holding its breath. The deeper we went, the worse it got.

The hallways narrowed, the lights growing dimmer.

Every inch of me wanted to run. But hadn’t my husband already promised to throw me over his shoulder, to drag me back kicking and screaming, if he had to?

I wouldn’t be able to hold onto my dignity for long, not once the knives came out, but I could muster a semblance of it in the meantime. So, I clung to my anger like a lifeline.

When that didn’t work, and my body threatened to split in half from the pressure building within me, I clenched my fists hard enough for the tips of my nails to bite into my palms.

It burned. And if the warmth pooling around my fingers was anything to go by, it was also bleeding. The pain was grounding enough that I could take a steady breath in, holding it for several seconds, before slowly releasing it again.

I repeated the process again and again, each time hearing my sister’s words echo through my head.

Breathe, Evy. Not here. You can’t panic here.

So, I did. I breathed.

It didn’t matter that I had never been to this Sanctum, that my blood had never coated these stones, that it wasn’t this Elder mage who had sliced into my skin under the guise of helping . It was all the same. They were all the same.

It isn’t the same. Breathe, Evy.

“You’re shaking,” Draven’s voice pulled me from my thoughts with a jolt.

I didn’t look at him. “It’s cold.”

A beat passed.

“You’re a liar,” he said quietly, and I bristled.

“Well, you’re a sadist,” I bit back. “And if we’re comparing sins, I think you’ll find that yours weigh more.”

I didn’t look at him after that, just followed closer to the torturer-in-training as he waxed poetic with all of the recent facts he’d learned about the arcane.

“Mana isn’t just tied to the land. It was born of it,” he said, pitching his voice to sound more dramatic. “To tap into the raw, undiluted mana, mages must work deep underground, to channel the power of the crystals formed within the world’s hidden veins.”

Tell me something I don’t know.

I had seen my fair share of arcane chambers, each one buried deep beneath stone and shadow. My stomach sank, and I swallowed down another blinding wave of panic. The air grew more frigid the further we descended, thick with the scent of damp stone and ancient mana that mocked me for having none.

For being a Hollow .

I took a shallow breath, trying to imagine a scenario in which I left this chamber alive. Once the torture started, would Draven step in before it went too far?

Or would he find a way to cut his losses, free to move on and torment some new, functioning bride?

I bit back the bitterness coating my tongue and squared my shoulders as I crossed the threshold into the vast chamber carved directly into the mountain’s heart.

Eventually, we were led to an archway marked by twin braziers that burned with pale blue flame. A robed figure stood waiting, draped in deeper blues and grays, his silver-threaded sash heavy with age and rank.

The Elder mage bowed low. “Your Majesty. Had we known you were coming?—”

“Our discretion was intentional, obviously.”

Charming as ever.

The mage’s brows rose slightly, but he recovered quickly. “Then I assume this is a matter of urgency.”

Draven tilted his head in my direction. “She needs to be examined.”

The mage’s eyes slid to me and stayed there.

I didn’t fidget. I didn’t flinch, but shards , I wanted to spit in his face. Or stab him with the dagger I no longer possessed.

Instead, I lifted my chin. “Yes, apparently I’m in a dire mana emergency. Lucky you.”

The mage didn’t smile back. Of course he didn’t. These types never did.

“Very well,” he said smoothly. “There are chambers prepared. I will have you both escorted.”

Escorted. Shards. What a fancy word for dragged down to the seventh layer of hell.

Draven gave a nod. Batty squirmed beneath my cloak. My fists clenched again.

We started down another hall.

And I couldn’t help but think—as we descended deeper into the mountain, deeper into what was probably going to be a very dramatic mana reckoning—that every time I thought we’d reached a new level of horrible…

We found one more stairwell.

The final chamber smelled like old mana and older stone—burnt dust and something sour lingering just beneath the surface, like forgotten fear.

There was a raised dais in the center, carved with spiraling runes and flanked by softly glowing crystals. It looked too much like the others… Like a place built to strip someone bare.

I didn’t move.

The mage gestured politely, like he wasn’t asking me to climb onto a slab of ancient rock and expose the deepest parts of myself for judgment.

“If you would,” he said.

My mind reeled with memories. Short, disjointed moments, spinning through my mind fast enough to make me dizzy. Dark rooms. Moonlight catching on scalpels as they carved through flesh and nerves. A hand over my mouth to keep me from screaming too loudly.

Experiments where I was caged with all kinds of predators, forced to sit in my own filth as beast after beast was unleashed on me, each of them trying to incite enough fear, enough panic that my mana would react.