Chapter 85 — The Vanishing

Chapter 85 — The Vanishing
Her body was still in his arms when the first shudder went through the air.

At first, he thought it was his imagination — the echo of his heartbeat pounding in his ears — but then the torches along the wall began to tremble in their brackets. The sound deepened, a low hum that crawled through the stone and into his bones.

The guards shifted uneasily behind him. “My lord…?”

Lachlan’s grip tightened around Isla’s lifeless form. Her skin was cold, her hair pale against his arm — yet something was happening. A vibration, faint at first, then stronger.

The humming grew louder, the pitch twisting until it filled the cell like the ringing of unseen bells. The guards drew their weapons instinctively though none of them knew what they were meant to fight.

And then the light changed.

Her hair — that ghostly white — began to lift, strand by strand, as though charged by some unseen current. The air pulsed. The torches flared blue.

“Step back!” Lachlan shouted, but he didn’t move himself.

Her body rose, inches at first, then higher — her head lolling back, the folds of her gown drifting as if underwater. The black veins that had covered her skin pulsed once, glowing silver beneath the surface.

“By the gods…” one guard whispered.

A wind rushed through the cell — impossible, wild — scattering straw, rattling the chains. And then came her voice, not from her lips but from everywhere, distorted, echoing through the air like a thousand whispers layered into one.

“Lachlan…”

He staggered to his feet, reaching upward.
“Lachlan, find me… find me…”

The sound fragmented, fading in and out, like an echo carried on radio waves that didn’t belong to this world.

“Isla!” he roared. “Isla!”

But it was too late.

Her body flickered — once, twice — and then it began to dissolve. Not vanish into shadow, not turn to dust, but break apart, fragmenting into shifting motes of light that pixelated and scattered like sparks from a dying fire.

A final whisper — find me — and she was gone.
The air stilled. The torches dimmed. The only thing left behind was the faint shimmer of her hair ribbon, Fenella’s handmade trinket, lying on the floor.

No one moved.
No one spoke.

Lachlan stared at the empty space where she’d been. His hands were still curved as if cradling her. Slowly, he looked down at them — at the blood, at the ash, at nothing at all.

“She’s gone,” he murmured.

The guards exchanged nervous glances.

“My lord?”

He turned toward them, eyes wild and hollow. “She’s gone,” he said louder. “No body. No soul. Nothing!”

The words echoed through the dungeon until they broke into silence again.

He rose abruptly and strode from the cell, the guards scrambling to follow. The corridors blurred past — stone, torchlight, shadow. Every footstep hit like thunder.

When he reached the courtyard, a shout stopped him.

“Lachlan!”

Alistair came running, breathless. “Please tell me you’ve stopped this madness. The trial — you can’t let them—”

Lachlan spun, his voice sharp as a blade. “There is no trial.”

“What?”

“She’s gone.”

Alistair froze, confusion flickering to fear. “Gone? What do you mean, gone?”

Lachlan met his gaze — and for once, there was no anger, only something raw and broken. “She died. In my arms. And then she vanished. Into light, into air. You tell me what magic does that.”

The younger brother stared, words failing him. “Lachlan, listen—”

“Enough!” Lachlan barked, then, quieter, almost
pleading, “Find her maid. Find Vaelen. They must have helped her. There’s no other explanation.”

He brushed past, his cloak snapping behind him.
Alistair watched him go, shaken. His hand went instinctively to his pocket, feeling the weight of the signet ring Isla had given him. Whatever had just happened, he knew the truth was tied to that ring — and to the promise he’d made.

But Lachlan didn’t look back. He couldn’t.

He rode hard for Elspeth’s cottage.

The door was half-open; the smell of herbs and smoke filled the air. Inside, the witch sat cross-legged on the floor, her hands resting on her knees, her eyes rolled white in trance. Candles flickered violently, bending toward her as though drawn by breath.
Lachlan waited — pacing, his heart pounding, until finally her eyes cleared.

Her voice was low, distant. “It has begun.”

“What have you seen?”

Elspeth blinked slowly, as though returning from a far-off place. “Destruction. Fire. The fall of your house. The river runs red, and your name is whispered only in mourning.”

Lachlan’s throat tightened. “By my hand?”

“Aye.”

He stepped closer. “Because of her?”

She looked up then — and for the first time, the witch’s expression softened with something like pity. “No, my lord. Because of the truth. The one you refused to see until it was too late.”

Her words struck like an arrow. He turned without another word and stormed out into the open air.
The sky had gone dark with clouds. Wind tore at the trees, carrying the first drops of rain. Lachlan walked until he reached the edge of the hill overlooking the castle, the same hill where he and Alistair had once built their childhood hideaway.

He looked down at the lands that had once been his pride. Fields she had tended, villages she had saved. Everything Isla had touched had flourished — until he destroyed it.

Her last words echoed in his head. Promise me you’ll be happy.

But happiness was no longer possible. Only penance.

He turned toward the castle again. “Vaelen. Fenella.”

He needed answers — and he needed them now.
Behind him, thunder rolled across the valley like an ancient drumbeat.