Chapter 32
Chapter 32
Quillan's POV
I lay in bed, staring at the flickering candlelight dancing across the ceiling, unable to find sleep no matter how I tossed and turned. Celeste had refused me tonight, and that wasn't right—wasn't normal, wasn't her.
For over a decade, I'd raised her, shaped her, transformed her from a wailing orphan into Freeport's "Oracle." I knew her too well—that fear rooted deep in her marrow, that absolute obedience she'd learned to show me. She never dared say no. Never.
I remembered when she was twelve, the first time I made her stand atop the lighthouse to "listen to the winds." She'd trembled all over, crying that she couldn't hear anything. I'd simply looked at her, cold and silent. She'd changed her tune immediately, started fabricating those vague, ambiguous "prophecies" that could mean anything or nothing.
After that, she never defied me again. At thirteen, I'd ordered her to fast for three days during the full moon to "purify her soul." She'd nearly fainted from hunger but didn't dare steal a single bite of bread. At fourteen, I'd commanded her to immerse herself in the freezing seawater for an entire night, calling it "receiving the sea god's baptism." She'd done it, and though she'd burned with fever the next day, she'd still knelt before me begging forgiveness.
She feared me. That fear was my carefully cultivated creation, the chain by which I controlled her. So tonight, that refusal—that weak but unmistakable "no"—set off every alarm in my head.
I threw off the covers and crossed to the window, bare feet cold against the stone floor. Moonlight spilled across the ground, sharp and frigid. I looked toward the Wind Lighthouse in the distance, its green beacon barely visible through the darkness.
She should be there. She was supposed to be there. But my instincts screamed that something was wrong.
---
I threw on my robe and made my way from the Trade Council's seaside manor to the lighthouse, stopping outside Celeste's door. I raised my hand to knock, then let it fall back to my side.
"Celeste," I said, keeping my voice low, "the prophecy needs to be moved up. Tomorrow's too late."
No response.
"For the sailors preparing to set out," I continued, injecting urgency into my tone, "you need to listen to the winds now. This is your duty, your sacred calling as the Oracle."
I waited. Usually at times like this, she would respond immediately, throw open the door in a panic, apologize profusely for oversleeping. But this time, only silence answered from behind the door.
My stomach dropped.
"Celeste? Are you in there?"
Still nothing.
A sense of dread crawled up from the pit of my gut. I stopped hesitating and shoved the door open hard.
The room was empty.
The bed sat perfectly made, untouched. The window stood wide open, night wind whipping the curtains with a rhythmic snapping sound. I crossed to the window and spotted fresh scratches on the sill—someone had climbed out this way.
My fingers gripped the window frame so tightly my knuckles went white.
She'd run. No—not run. Someone had taken her.
I closed my eyes and drew in a deep breath. A mixture of scents hit my nose—the greasy smell of fried fish, the sharp bite of rum, and that distinctive moldy stench unique to the slums. None of these smells belonged in the lighthouse, nowhere near what the "Oracle" should be exposed to.
That lowborn punk. That's who it was.
I thought back to that day in the square when Celeste had been distributing supplies. She'd given that scruffy young man in tattered clothes an extra piece of bread, and there'd been something soft in her eyes I'd never seen before. I should have been more alert then.
I opened my eyes, my mouth twisting into a cold smile.
Twenty years. I'd spent twenty years molding her into Freeport's "Oracle," elevating her to a pedestal where everyone worshipped at her feet. And now some slum rat, some bottom-feeder who didn't even deserve to have a name, had dragged her down from that pedestal.
Laughable. Truly laughable.
But I couldn't let this continue. The Shard of Breath inside Celeste was the centerpiece of my twenty-year plan. As long as she lived, as long as the fragment within her kept functioning, I could use her to draw out the Shard of Velocity that Gideon had hidden away.
I turned and left the room, my mind already calculating the next move.
Tomorrow. No—the very first moment I saw this rebellious little runaway bird, I'd take Celeste to the wreckage of the Albatross. I'd tell her it was where her father had worked his final days, a chance to "honor" his memory.
She wouldn't refuse. She never dared refuse me.
And on that ship, the Shard of Breath inside her would resonate with the Shard of Velocity. Then I'd finally find what Gideon had hidden for twenty years.
As for that lowborn kid? He was just irrelevant noise. Once I had both shards, his existence would pop like a soap bubble.
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Celeste's POV
I stared at the ring on my finger, completely frozen.
What just happened?
I remembered the brown wolf lunging at Jax, remembered Jax falling to the ground unable to move, remembered my heart practically bursting from my chest. And then... then I'd raised my hand.
Just like that. I'd simply raised my hand.
The ring had suddenly blazed with light, green radiance pouring from my palm and condensing into a sharp blade of wind. That wind blade had sliced through the air, grazing the massive wolf's leg.
The wolf had twisted mid-air, broken off its attack, and finally crashed through the window to escape.
I looked down at my palm, at this ring my father had left me. It now sat quietly on my finger, the green glow completely faded, as if everything that just happened had been a hallucination.
But the wounds on Jax's body were real. The broken window was real.
What did I do? How did I do it?
My legs went weak, barely able to support me. I stumbled toward Jax and dropped to my knees beside him.
He lay on the ground covered in injuries, chest heaving violently. But the most terrifying thing wasn't his wounds—it was his eyes. That hollow, unfocused stare, as if his soul had already left his body.
"He left," Jax muttered hoarsely. "He abandoned me again."
My heart clenched tight.
I had a pretty good guess who that brown wolf was—Jax's father, missing for years. He'd come back, but not to embrace his son. He'd come to steal that navigation log.
He'd injured Jax, then vanished into the night once more.
"Jax," I said softly, reaching out to grip his shoulder.
His whole body was ice-cold, muscles rigid as stone.
He didn't respond. His eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling, lips still repeating those words: "He left... he abandoned me again..."
I didn't know what to say. This kind of pain felt familiar—being betrayed by the person closest to you, abandoned by the one you trusted most.
My father had died loving the sea and adventure more than he'd loved me. Jax's father was still alive but chose to leave again and again.
This kind of pain was like a wave that swallowed you whole, left you drowning, gasping for air.
The only thing I could do right now was stay with him.
I took a deep breath and opened my arms, pulling Jax into an embrace.
His body stiffened for a moment, then slowly relaxed. I could feel his body heat seeping through the thin fabric to my skin, could feel his heartbeat gradually steadying.
"You're not alone," I said quietly, my voice echoing in the empty room. "You still have me."
I didn't know if those words would help. I didn't know if I could fill the void his father had left. But I knew that right now, Jax needed someone to tell him he hadn't been abandoned by the entire world.
I tightened my arms, holding him closer. His head rested against my shoulder, and I could feel his trembling breaths.
"Jax," I cupped his face, forcing him to look at me.
His eyes were still hollow, but at least he was looking at me now. "Listen to me. Your father's choices aren't your fault. You don't have to take responsibility for him leaving. You're already good enough."
A flicker of light sparked in his eyes, like a match struck in the darkness.
"Celeste..." His voice came out barely above a whisper.
"I'm here," I said. "I'm not leaving you."
His gaze slowly focused, that hollow, dead feeling beginning to recede. He looked at me—really looked at me—as if I were the only anchor point he had left in this world.
Then his lips moved, forming a single word:
"Mate."
I froze.
That word hung in the air, carrying a power I couldn't comprehend. Jax's eyes burned with some fierce light, a light that made my heart race and my breathing quicken.
"What?" I asked quietly.
"Mate," he repeated, more certain this time. His hand lifted to grasp my wrist, the touch gentle but firm. "You're my Mate."
I didn't know how to respond. I wasn't even sure what he meant. But I could feel that in this instant, something had changed.
Something profound and irreversible.