CH- 34

CH- 34

Aria POV

I wake up to silence.

Not the soft, comforting kind you fall asleep to—the kind that wraps around you like a warm blanket—but the heavy, suffocating kind that creeps up your spine like a warning.

It’s the sort of quiet that feels alive, as if it’s watching, waiting for something. Or someone.

The light outside my window is gray—flat and lifeless, stretching across the horizon like an unbroken sheet of ash.

The trees stand motionless, their branches frozen mid-reach, as though even they’re afraid to make a sound.

Even the birds have abandoned this place; there’s no chirping, no flutter of wings cutting through the stillness. It’s like the house exists in its own pocket of time, sealed off from the rest of the world.

A bubble of emptiness where nothing breathes, nothing moves.

I should be used to it by now.

I’m not.

This is my third day here. Three days since I left Blackthorn.

Three days of eating glamoured food that tastes faintly of ash no matter how sweet or savory it’s supposed to be. Three days of wandering these halls alone, save for Lysandra’s servant—a gaunt figure with hollow eyes who drifts silently through the rooms like a ghost herself. She never speaks, only watches me with that dead-eyed stare before vanishing into shadows I can’t follow.

Three days of waiting—but for what, exactly, I don’t know.

And maybe that’s the problem. Waiting isn’t doing anything but driving me closer to the edge. Sitting in this room, staring at the same four walls, listening to the same oppressive silence—it’s enough to drive anyone mad.

So I decide to explore.

Lysandra said not to go beyond the second floor. Her voice had been firm, almost sharp, when she gave the warning, like she expected me to obey without question. Like she thought fear would keep me in line. And maybe it should have. Maybe part of me does feel that prickle of unease whenever I think about disobeying her. But then again…

Lysandra also said I was safe here.

And I don’t believe her.

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The first floor is all dark wood and candlelight. There’s no tech—no outlets, no switches, no lightbulbs.

Just oil lamps that flicker when I breathe too close.
I find a study with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, half written in languages I can’t read. A music room with an untouched piano.

A sealed greenhouse that smells like old blood and orchids.
But it’s the mirror at the end of the hall that pulls me in.

It’s not ornate or gilded—just plain, full-length, and sharp at the edges.

And when I step in front of it…
My reflection doesn’t match me.

Her hair is longer.
Her eyes are silver.

And the mark on her throat isn’t mine—it’s the sigil from my thigh.
Black. Alive. Pulsing faintly.

I touch the glass.
She mirrors me.

And then she smiles—even though I don’t.

A sharp knock echoes through the house, slicing through the suffocating silence like a blade. It’s sudden, unexpected—and it makes my heart leap into my throat.

I jolt, freezing mid-step as the sound reverberates off the walls, bouncing back at me from every corner of this eerie, lifeless place. My pulse quickens, each beat pounding in my ears like a warning drum.

Another knock. Louder this time. More insistent.

I don’t think—I just move. Rushing back upstairs, my footsteps echo too loudly against the wooden stairs, betraying how unsteady I am. By the time I reach the landing, the front door creaks open below, slow and deliberate, sending a fresh wave of dread coursing through me.

Lysandra’s voice drifts up the staircase, smooth and measured, but laced with something cold—something that sets my teeth on edge. “Thank you for delivering the package. You may go.”

Her words hang there, heavy and final, filling the air with unanswered questions.

Who is she talking to? What kind of “package” arrives without explanation or ceremony? And why does her tone make it feel like whatever just walked through that door isn’t human?

I strain to listen for a response—a voice, footsteps, anything—but there’s nothing. Just silence. Heavy, oppressive silence.

I wait, holding my breath, bracing myself for the sound of someone climbing the stairs. But no one comes. No one knocks on my door.

The house feels emptier than before, if that’s even possible, yet somehow more alive with secrets I can’t begin to untangle.

That night, I try to sleep. Really, I do. But lying here in the dark, staring at the ceiling while shadows dance along the walls, all I can think about is that damn “package.”

What could it be? Something fragile? Something dangerous? Or maybe… someone.

And who brought it? Was it the same dead-eyed servant who haunts these halls? Or was it someone else entirely—someone Lysandra didn’t want me to see?

The thoughts swirl faster and faster, tangling together until they’re impossible to separate from the unease clawing at my chest.

I roll over, pulling the blankets tighter around me, willing myself to shut down, to let exhaustion take over.

But the moment my eyes close…

He’s there.

................

We’re in a city this time.
Not a forest.

Not the clearing.

But a real city—one I don’t recognize, but feels like I’ve been to before.
It glows with magic and neon, the streets humming like veins.

And he’s behind me.

Not touching me.

Not yet.

But his presence rolls over me like gravity.

“You don’t remember binding me,” he says, voice deep, smooth, inhuman.
“But I remember everything.”

I spin around—and freeze.
His eyes are silver.

His skin is pale gold, etched with glowing black runes.
His hair is white.

He’s beautiful in the way winter is—sharp, deadly, still.
“You belong to them,” I whisper. “The bond.”

He smiles.
“No. They belong to me.”

He touches my face.
My knees nearly buckle.

Not from power.
From memory.

Because as soon as his skin meets mine—it hits.
I’ve touched him before.

Not recently.
Not in this life.

But in one where I wore a crown of ash.
His hands trail down my arms.

Not rushed. Not crude.
Worshipful.

Like he’s waited eternity for permission.
And when he leans in—lips brushing mine—

He whispers:

“You gave them your body.”

“You gave him your heart.”

“Now give me your fire.”

I jolt awake.
Sweating.
Breathless.

Wanting.
But not from him.
From the aftershock.

And when I glance at the mirror across the room—
I see him again.

Standing behind my reflection.
Silver eyes locked to mine.
I blink.

He’s gone.

But something rustles at my door.
A small black box.
No note.

Inside, wrapped in velvet:

A ring.
Silver. Thorned.

Identical to the one on his finger in the dream.
When I touch it, my sigil pulses.
And my body floods with heat.

I clutch the ring to my chest, heart pounding.

Then a sound tears through the silence—
A knock.
Not the door.

The mirror.

One slow, deliberate knock.

And then—

He steps through.