Chapter Forty-Three

The passage smelled of aged paper and stone, the air thick with something old—older than Nathaniel, older than the house above them. Celeste could feel it humming beneath her skin, a quiet but insistent pull, like something recognizing her. Or claiming her.

She didn't know which scared her more.

Nathaniel led the way, his steps steady despite the narrow staircase that wound downward. Amelia was right behind him, her grip firm on Celeste's hand. She hadn't let go since they stepped inside. Celeste didn't think she could, even if she wanted to.

The corridor opened into a circular chamber. It was unlike anything Celeste had expected—grand, with towering bookshelves carved into the stone walls, their contents untouched by dust or time. In the center stood a stone pedestal, its surface etched with intricate symbols that pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat.

Nathaniel approached it without hesitation, placing a hand on the carved sigils. The room seemed to respond, the air growing heavier, charged with an invisible force.

"This place—" Celeste whispered.

"Your mother built it," Nathaniel said, not turning around. "Before she passed."

Celeste's breath hitched.

Amelia's grip on her tightened. "You never told me that."

Nathaniel exhaled. "Because I hoped you'd never need to know."

Celeste swallowed hard. Her mother. She had never met her, not really—only in paintings, in half-remembered stories from a father she barely knew. But now, standing in a room her mother had created, it felt like she was closer to her than ever before.

Nathaniel finally turned, his eyes serious. "This is the only way to make your existence permanent." He looked at Celeste. "To make you permanent."

Celeste felt Amelia's gaze on her, felt the silent question in it.

Are you ready for this?

She didn't know.

But she nodded anyway.

Nathaniel reached into his coat and pulled out a small, thin blade. Its hilt was inlaid with silver filigree, its edge impossibly sharp. He held it out between them.

"A bond must be sealed with intent," he said. "And blood."

Celeste's pulse jumped.

Amelia's eyes narrowed. "If you think I'm letting her—"

"It won't hurt her," Nathaniel said calmly. "But she has to do it herself."

Celeste hesitated, then reached for the blade. It was cool in her palm, lighter than she expected.

Nathaniel nodded to the pedestal. "Place your hand over the sigil."

Celeste obeyed, pressing her palm against the carved stone. The surface was warm, pulsing beneath her skin, as if it were alive.

Nathaniel took a step closer. "Now, say it."

Celeste's throat felt tight. "Say what?"

Nathaniel's gaze softened. "What you want."

Celeste's fingers curled against the stone. She thought of the crack on her wrist, of the way the universe seemed to remind her, again and again, that she didn't belong. She thought of Amelia—of her warmth, her determination, the way she had fought for her when no one else would.

She closed her eyes.

"I want to stay."

The air shifted. The symbols beneath her hand flared with light, the stone vibrating beneath her fingers.

Nathaniel's voice was quiet but firm. "Then prove it."

Celeste inhaled sharply. Then, before she could think too much about it, she dragged the edge of the blade across her palm.

A single drop of blood hit the stone. The chamber roared to life.