Chapter 7

The sanctum is too quiet tonight, the air thick with a stillness that presses against my skin like damp velvet. Dawn's golden glow has faded, replaced by a twilight that clings unnaturally, the crimson moon obscured by a veil of shifting clouds. Kaelen lies beside me on the rune-circle floor, his chest rising slow and steady, one arm draped over my waist. His warmth should anchor me—after Torin's fall, after the way we claimed each other in the aftermath, I thought peace was ours. But something's wrong. The thread between us hums, restless, a faint tremor I can't shake.

I slip from his grasp, careful not to wake him, and pad to the scrying pool. My robe hangs loose, brushing my thighs, and the cool stone chills my bare feet. The water's surface is dark, unnervingly still—no ripples, no visions, just a void staring back. I whisper a spell, fingers trembling as I trace runes in the air, but the pool resists, its depths swallowing my magic like a hungry maw. My pulse quickens, a cold sweat prickling my neck. This isn't exhaustion or aftermath. This is *something*.

A sound—soft, skittering—echoes from the lower halls, like claws on stone. I freeze, ears straining, and the thread jolts, sharp and urgent. Kaelen stirs behind me, awake in an instant, his voice a low rasp. "Lysara?"

"Do you hear it?" I whisper, turning to him. He's already up, tunic hastily pulled on, dagger in hand, those storm-gray eyes narrowing as he listens. The sound comes again—closer now, deliberate—and the wards flare, a discordant screech that sets my teeth on edge. Whatever this is, it's inside.

"Rhea," he says, glancing toward the corner where she sleeps, her breathing shallow but steady. I nod, and we move as one—him to her side, me to the sanctum's edge, peering down the spiral stairs into the shadowed depths. The orbs flicker, their violet light dimming, and a chill crawls up my spine. The tower feels alive, but not with my magic—something foreign, invasive, slithering through its veins.

I weave a spell—light to pierce the dark—and fling it downward. It gutters out midair, snuffed by an unseen force, and a low, guttural laugh rolls up from below, wet and wrong. Kaelen's at my back now, Rhea propped against him, her eyes wide with fear. "What the hell is that?" she rasps, clutching her side.

"Not Torin," I say, though my voice wavers. He's dead—I felt his life bleed out, saw the ash—but this… this is older, deeper, a shadow Torin might've woken. The grimoire sits on its pedestal, untouched yet glowing faintly, as if it knows something we don't. I reach for it, fingers brushing the leather, and a jolt surges through me—visions of twisted limbs, eyeless faces, a void that whispers my name. I yank back, gasping, and Kaelen's hand clamps my shoulder, steadying me.

"Lysara, talk to me," he demands, voice taut, but before I can answer, the stairs erupt—black tendrils, slick and pulsing, lash upward, coiling toward us. I fling up a ward, violet light clashing with their darkness, but they press harder, splitting stone, oozing a stench like rot and iron. Kaelen slashes one with his dagger, the blade sizzling as it cuts, and Rhea hurls a conjured spike, buying us a moment.

"Up!" I shout, dragging them toward the balcony. The tendrils follow, relentless, and the thread between Kaelen and me flares—his fear mirrors mine, sharp and visceral. We burst into the open air, the mist thick and acrid, and I see it—a shape in the courtyard below, humanoid but wrong, limbs too long, head tilting at an impossible angle. It's not Torin. It's something he unleashed, something tied to the grimoire, and it's here for me.

The figure lifts a hand, and the tendrils surge, wrapping my ankle, yanking me toward the edge. Kaelen grabs me, hauling me back, his strength a lifeline as Rhea blasts it with raw magic—untrained but fierce. The thing screeches, a sound that claws at my mind, and I feel the thread strain, Kaelen's resolve pouring into me. "Together," he growls, and I nod, desperate, pulling him close.

His lips crash into mine, a fierce, fleeting anchor amidst the chaos, and I draw on it—his heat, his will, the memory of us entwined. My hands grip his face, his stubble rough under my palms, and for a heartbeat, the dread fades, replaced by a spark of us—his body pressing mine, the promise in his touch. It's not enough for more, not now, but it fuels me. I channel it into a spell, violet fire laced with our bond, and hurl it down. The figure staggers, tendrils retreating, but it doesn't fall—it laughs again, vanishing into the mist.

We collapse against the railing, breathless, Rhea trembling beside us. "What *was* that?" Kaelen asks, voice low, his arm tight around me.

"I don't know," I admit, staring at the grimoire's faint glow through the doors. "But it's not done." The thread pulses, a warning now, and the tower feels like a trap closing around us. Something ancient stirs, and we're not safe—not yet. The suspense coils tighter, and I cling to Kaelen, knowing whatever comes next, we'll face it in shadow.