Chapter 25 A Curse in Bloom
The return to consciousness was not a gentle rise; it was like being dragged through wet cement. When Noah’s mind finally flickered back to life, he found himself staring at the popcorn texture of the apartment ceiling.
He tried to draw a breath, but his chest felt like it was encased in a block of solid lead. He tried to twitch a finger, to wiggle a toe, to even shift his jaw. Nothing.
His body was a lifeless mannequin, a heavy, unresponsive shell that no longer obeyed the commands of its pilot.
The only things he could control were his eyelids. He blinked rapidly, the dry friction of his lashes against his corneas being the only sensation he could claim.
A shadow fell over him. Kael leaned into his field of vision, looking significantly better than he had on the floor, though his complexion still carried a faint, translucent grayness, his beautiful molten amber skin tone had begun to return. He looked down at Noah with a mixture of clinical interest and that infuriating, aristocratic amusement.
“Ah, the sleeping beauty awakens. Though, to be fair, you look more like a startled goldfish” Kael remarked. He leaned closer, crossing his arms. “Now, don’t bother trying to scream. Your vocal cords are currently on a mandatory sabbatical. The tether, you see, has quite the temper. You tried to throttle your own source of life, Noah. Usually, the backlash for such a transgression is a spontaneous and rather messy human bonfire. I’m genuinely shocked it let you off with a simple bout of full-body paralysis. It’s almost as if the bond is becoming… sentimental. How cringe is that? Absolute L for the ancient laws of magic, if you ask me.”
Kael tapped his chin thoughtfully. “We need to communicate, though I suspect your side of the conversation will be a bit one sided. Blink once for yes, twice for no. Do you understand, or has your brain finally turned into a puddle of lukewarm porridge?”
Noah blinked once. The movement felt heavy, weighted by the lingering violet static in his nerves.
“Splendid” Kael chirped. He sat on the edge of the bed, his posh, Victorian cadence clashing horribly with his choice of words. “You’ve been out for hours. I had to scrub the floor, you know. Strangle fighting is such a dusty endeavor. Very un-aesthetic. No rizz in being choked out on a Tuesday.”
For the next twenty minutes, Noah remained a prisoner in his own skin. He watched Kael wander around the room, tidying up with a flick of his fingers, occasionally stopping to poke Noah’s cheek to see if the sensation had returned. Slowly, a pins and needles sensation began to crawl up Noah’s legs, followed by a burning itch in his fingertips.
Finally, Noah let out a ragged, gasping breath. His fingers jerked.
“Oh, look at you! The evolution of man” Kael teased. “From a decorative rug back to a bipedal creature. Honestly, for a moment there, you looked like an ostrich that had grown absurdly long eyelashes and got a bit of sand in its eye. Quite the look. Very avant-garde.”
“Shut… up” Noah wheezed, his voice sounding like it had been dragged over broken glass. He rolled onto his side, his muscles protesting with every movement. He so dearly wished he could punch Kael’s poisonous mouth.
“There he is! The charming personality I signed up for” Kael said, grinning. But the grin didn't reach his eyes. He sat back down, his posture straightening. “Now, tell me. What did you see in that alcohol fueled fever dream? One moment you were sound asleep and the next thing I knew you hand tackled me to the ground trying to murder me.”
Noah froze. The memory of the dream rushed back; the sunlight, the classroom, the warmth of Leo’s presence. And then, the kiss. The memory of Kael’s lips, human, soft, and terrifyingly affectionate, sent a jolt through Noah’s chest that had nothing to do with magic.
He looked at Kael, really looked at him, and felt a confusing, growing warmth that he desperately tried to shove into a dark corner of his mind.
But he knew could only run from the butterflies in his stomach for a short while before they’ll catch up with him.
“It was just… school” Noah muttered, avoiding Kael’s gaze.
“Liar” Kael sang, leaning in until their noses almost touched. “You’re blushing. That’s a massive red flag. Did you dream of me? Was I a knight in shining armor? Or did I do something exceptionally ‘based’ that caught your fancy?”
“No!” Noah snapped, pushing Kael’s face away. “It was Leo. He was there. He was alive. Everyone was acting like everything was normal. But then their faces… they changed. They had those smiles from the bar. And there were voices, Kael. Overlapping voices telling me to find something. They said I had to find it before it was too late.”
He omitted the kiss. He couldn't tell Kael about the kiss, not when his heart was currently trying to beat its way out of his ribs.
Kael’s playful demeanor vanished instantly. He stood up, his face hardening into the cold, ancient mask of a noble. The air in the room seemed to drop several degrees.
“Voices?” Kael whispered. He paced the length of the small apartment, his fingers drumming against his thighs. “Noah, listen to me very carefully. It sounds like you have been cursed. Someone, an unknown entity with a very specific, very nasty set of skills, is messing with the architecture of your brain. They are trying to bridge the gap between your reality and the unseen.”
He stopped and looked Noah dead in the eye. “The things you see, the things you hear… do not succumb to them. They are trying to lead you to something that should remain lost. If a voice tells you to find something, anything, you must do the exact opposite. You must remain anchored to me. Do you understand? No matter how sweet the dream feels, it is a poison.”
Noah nodded, the caution and unease finally overriding the embarrassment of the dream. “Who would do this?”
“Someone who knows exactly what I am,” Kael murmured. “And wants you gone.”
Miles away, beneath the foundations of an abandoned cathedral, the shadows were breathing.
This was the sanctum of the Khor Zhil Lirieni, the Sect of the Shadow Flowers. The air here didn't smell of antiseptic or stale beer; it smelled of deep earth, copper, and a floral scent so sweet it was nauseating.
The stone floor was etched with a massive, intricate incantation circle that seemed to glow with a faint, bruised purple light. Surrounding it were figures draped in hooded white robes.
The fabric was heavy, but it was marred by black dots scattered across the shoulders and chest. Some members had dozens of dots, their heads bowed low in subservience. The fewer the dots, the higher the rank.
At the center of the circle, a group of people knelt. They were naked, their skin shivering in the damp cold, heavy burlap bags tied over their heads.
Their hands were bound tightly behind their backs with silver-threaded rope that sizzled whenever they struggled. Their muffled screams and pleas for mercy created a pathetic, desperate chorus that echoed off the vaulted ceilings.
On an elevated throne of white marble sat, Vhalir.
He was a man of unsettling beauty, his skin as white as bleached bone and his wavy, golden hair falling over his shoulders like spun silk. A delicate, masterfully crafted silicon mask covered exactly half of his face, hiding whatever lay beneath. He lounged on the throne, his pure white robes with gold accents flowing around him like a shroud.
Between his long, elegant fingers, he twirled a small glass ball. He tilted his head, his eyes half closed, as if he were listening to a symphony only he could hear.
He let out a soft, melodic laugh.
“This is going much smoother than I anticipated,” he said. His voice was calm, soothing, and carried a terrifying weight of self-righteousness. It was the voice of a man who believed his atrocities were a form of worship.
He looked down at the shivering captives in the circle. The glass ball in his hand glowed with a sudden, violent violet spark.
“Begin,” he commanded.
The silence was shattered. The Sect members moved as one, pulling long, curved ritual daggers from their belts. There was no hesitation. The sound of steel cutting through resistance, the wet spray of blood against the stone, and the final, gurgling screams filled the chamber. The blood didn't just pool on the floor; it was drawn into the grooves of the incantation circle, flowing like ink through a pen.
The hooded figures began to chant, their voices rising in a dissonant, haunting harmony:
“Born of the shadow, the flowers shall rise. Through the vessel’s pain, the old world dies.”
The Vhalir watched the carnage with a look of serene boredom. He watched as the blood reached the center of the sigil, where a single, black flower made of obsidian and shadow began to sprout from the stone.
He stood up, his golden hair catching the dim light of the torches. He looked toward the ceiling, as if his gaze could pierce through the miles of earth and stone to find a small apartment where a boy was waking up from a nightmare.
"Lirieni Kha-oniy ora.” he whispered to the empty air.
The Shadow Flower blooms for thee.