Chapter 92 There you are
Chapter 92 There you are
Amara POV
Night has started to feel like a book I never meant to open, yet somehow keep finding in my hands, its pages turning without permission while ink bleeds into places that should remain blank.
Feeding used to be hunger and relief, a sharp need answered with practiced control, but now it feels like stepping into someone else’s dream while my body stays behind. Each time Nyra offers her wrist, I brace myself not just for blood, but for whatever scraps of memory decide to slip through the cracks between us.
Sometimes it is small.
A flicker of candlelight in Nyra’s childhood home, laughter echoing across a kitchen filled with flour and warmth. The smell of baked bread so vivid I swear I can taste it, even while copper coats my tongue.
Other times it is stranger.
A glimpse of a forest I have never walked, moonlight threading between branches like silver needles sewing shadows into the earth. The feeling of running barefoot through moss, heart pounding with wild delight that does not belong to me.
But the old woman is never part of those memories. The stupid witch who seeks me out.. I feel her watching, but never see her.
The chamber feels too quiet tonight.
Not empty, not peaceful, but heavy in that strange way storms feel before the first thunder splits the sky. Candles burn low against the stone walls, their light flickering in restless patterns that make every shadow feel deeper than it should be.
Sebastian stands near the far side of the room, posture still but watchful, his gaze never straying too far from me as Nyra prepares the tray with steady hands.
Silver glints beneath candlelight.
Glass.
Cloth.
Small rituals meant to make danger look civilized.
Nyra glances at me once, her expression calm but edged with careful awareness, like someone approaching a sleeping predator with food balanced in their palms.
“You look pale,” she murmurs softly.
I offer a tight smile that does not reach my eyes.
“I feel like I swallowed a thundercloud,” I admit quietly. “All pressure. No rain.”
She huffs a faint breath of amusement, though tension still lingers in her shoulders.
“Let’s make this quick, then.”
Sebastian steps closer, presence settling beside me like armor I did not realize I needed until it was there. The bond between us hums low beneath my skin, steady and grounding, like a rope tied firmly around my waist while I stand at the edge of a cliff.
“Slow,” he reminds gently.
I nod.
Nyra extends her wrist.
The moment stretches thin as glass.
I lean forward, senses sharpening until the world narrows to scent and pulse and heat beneath skin. My teeth pierce flesh with practiced precision, the taste of blood blooming across my tongue like dark wine poured into crystal.
And then the world tilts.
It starts the way it always does now, with a ripple spreading outward from the point of contact, like a pebble dropped into still water.
Nyra’s memories flicker first.
A flash of laughter.
A memory of spilled ink across parchment and her younger self cursing while trying to clean the mess before her mentor noticed. The scent of lavender clinging to worn robes, the low hum of whispered spells threading through quiet halls.
Then something shifts.
The ripple deepens.
Darkens.
The world pulls.
Not into Nyra’s past.
Into something else.
Cold air slams into my lungs like I have stepped outside without warning.
Stone rises around me.
Tall.
Cracked.
Ancient in a way that feels older than memory itself.
A tower.
Broken windows gape like empty eye sockets staring into a bruised sky. Shelves crowd the walls, stacked so high they seem ready to topple beneath their own weight, books layered in crooked towers that stretch across the floor like fallen soldiers.
Dust floats in the air, thick and heavy, coating everything in silence.
I stand in the center of it all.
Not as a body.
As a presence.
Watching.
Waiting.
And then she finally appears.
The old woman stands near the far end of the room, cloaked in shadows that cling to her like loyal hounds. Her hair is silver, long and tangled, falling around narrow shoulders that carry the quiet weight of someone who has lived too long and seen too much.
Her eyes find me instantly.
Not searching.
Recognizing.
“There you are,” she says.
Her voice curls through the air like smoke slipping beneath a locked door.
Not loud.
Not sharp.
But certain.
As if she has been expecting me.
Fear slices through me, sharp and sudden, yet I cannot move. I cannot speak. I cannot even breathe.
Because she steps closer.
One slow step at a time, boots scraping softly against stone that echoes far too loudly in the suffocating quiet.
“You took your time,” she murmurs.
Her gaze drags across me, studying, measuring, cataloging every invisible piece of my existence.
“You look just like your her,” she adds softly.
Confusion coils tight in my chest.
Her?
Who?
The question forms in my mind, but before I can force sound into shape, something else moves behind her.
A shadow.
A shift.
A whisper of movement too quick to track.
Then—
Pain.
Not physical.
Something deeper.
A violent snap that yanks me backward through darkness like a hook buried beneath ribs.
I gasp.
Air crashes into my lungs as the world slams back into place around me, candlelight stabbing into my vision as I stumble hard against the stone floor.
Nyra’s wrist slips from my grasp.
Sebastian’s hands catch my shoulders before I can fall completely, his grip firm and steady as my body trembles beneath the weight of what I just saw.
“I saw her,” I whisper hoarsely.
My voice barely sounds like mine.
Nyra presses cloth against her wrist, face tight with concern but untouched by recognition, her brows drawn together in confusion that confirms what I already know.
This is not her memory.
Never was.
“Same tower?” Sebastian asks quietly.
I nod.
Breathing still uneven.
“The woman,” I add weakly. “She spoke to me this time.”
That earns immediate attention.
Nyra stills completely, tension coiling through her posture like wire pulled too tight.
“What did she say?” Sebastian presses.
I swallow hard.
My throat feels scraped raw, like words themselves carry teeth.
“She said she was waiting,” I whisper. “That I took my time.”
Silence falls thick and suffocating.
Not confusion.
Recognition.
Nyra shifts slightly, her gaze flicking toward the doorway as if expecting something to appear.
And right on cue, footsteps echo down the hall beyond the chamber.
The door opens without ceremony.
Sybil steps inside first, dark robes flowing behind her like ink spilled across parchment. Cassian follows close behind, expression unreadable but sharp with quiet calculation.
They do not look surprised.
They look prepared.
Sybil’s gaze lands on me immediately, eyes narrowing slightly as she studies my posture, my breathing, the lingering tremor in my hands.
“You saw her again,” she states.
Not asks.
States.
My pulse spikes.
“You know who she is,” I whisper.
Sybil’s jaw tightens.
For a moment, she says nothing, silence stretching thin enough to snap beneath the weight of unspoken truth.
Then she exhales slowly, shoulders lowering as if releasing a burden she has carried far too long.
“I do,” she says firmly. “But she’s supposed to be dead.”
The words land like stone dropped into water.
But Cassian snorts quietly beside her, the sound dry and edged with something that almost resembles amusement.
“Dead,” he repeats, tone laced with skepticism sharp enough to cut bone.
Sybil shoots him a glare sharp enough to draw blood.
“Cassian,” she snaps.
But he only shrugs, folding his arms across his chest with lazy defiance that feels entirely too comfortable in a room thick with tension.
“Have you met our family?” he mutters dryly.
His gaze flicks toward me, then back to Sybil.
“We don’t die easy.”
Silence blooms again.
Because that tiny sentence lands like a spark tossed into dry kindling.
Sybil’s mouth presses into a tight line, frustration and dread flickering across her expression in equal measure.
And suddenly, I know.
Not with proof.
Not with logic.
But with that bone-deep certainty that curls through instinct like roots cracking through stone.
The old woman in the tower is not a stranger.
Not a ghost.
Not a memory.
She is their family.
“Who is she?” I whisper.
My voice feels fragile now, stretched thin between fear and understanding.
Sybil hesitates.
That hesitation tells me more than any words ever could.
Finally, she exhales slowly.
“Our grandmother,” she admits.
The words land like thunder cracking across open sky.
Shock ripples through the room, thick enough to taste.
“She was cast out decades ago,” Sybil continues, voice quieter now. “Banished from the coven for using dark magic for her own gain.”
Cassian lets out a low breath that almost sounds like a laugh.
“Not exactly the sentimental type,” he mutters.
Sybil ignores him.
“She was supposed to have died years ago,” she finishes.
Supposed to.
Not confirmed.
Not witnessed.
Supposed.
Cold dread slides down my spine like melting ice.
Because I can still see her eyes.
Still feel her gaze crawling across my skin like invisible spiders weaving threads I cannot break.
“She knew me,” I whisper again.
The room goes still.
Not just quiet.
Still.
Like prey freezing when it realizes something ancient has stepped into the clearing.
And deep inside my chest, something answers that fear with something far more dangerous.
Recognition.
Because somewhere in the back of my mind, her voice still echoes like a bell struck once and left ringing.
There you are.