Chapter 86 BROKEN HOPES
The tower did not welcome them.
The closer the guards drew, the more it seemed to recoil—not by moving, but by resisting their presence. Thick roots wrapped its stone like veins, pulsing faintly beneath bark and moss, some as wide as a man’s thigh. They crawled over windows, coiled around ledges, and knotted themselves into natural ladders that promised footing and then stole it away.
“Careful!” one guard shouted as another slipped, scraping armor against stone before catching himself with a curse.
King Adrian stood below, helm tucked beneath his arm, eyes lifted. His jaw was set so tightly it ached. Every scrape of metal against root, every labored breath above him, struck his nerves raw. This was it. He felt it. The weight in his chest—familiar, painful, hopeful—had returned with a force he had not felt since the first months after Athalia vanished.
“Don’t rush,” he called up. “Slow. Secure each step.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” came the strained reply.
A mage climbed with them, muttering spells under his breath, his palms glowing faintly as he pressed them to the roots. Where his hands touched, the bark blackened and cracked, releasing a smell like burned leaves. But the roots did not retreat. They tightened.
“It’s alive,” the mage gasped. “Or bound to something that is.”
Adrian swallowed. “Keep going.”
They reached the window just as the sun dipped low, staining the sky red. The glass was clouded, opaque with age and magic, but intact. One guard raised his sword and struck.
The sound rang out sharply. The glass shattered inward.
“Clear,” the guard called, peering inside. Then his voice faltered. “There’s… nothing here.”
Adrian’s heart lurched. “What do you mean?”
“It’s empty, sire.”
“No,” Adrian said, already moving forward. “Break it wider.”
The guards forced the opening, widening it until a man could climb through. Adrian followed, ignoring the protest from behind. Roots scraped his gloves, tugged at his cloak, as if reluctant to let him pass.
Inside, the tower smelled of cold stone and old magic. Light filtered through narrow slits, illuminating dust that danced in the air. The chamber was barely as it used to be with just it's bed that looked old now.
“No,” Adrian whispered.
He stepped further in, boots echoing softly. The walls were etched with runes—familiar now, painfully so—but they were dim, nearly inert.
“She was here,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.
The mage knelt, examining the floor. “There are traces,” he said slowly. “Power was used here recently. Very recently.”
“Where did it go?” Adrian demanded.
The mage shook his head. “It doesn’t feel like a removal. More like… absence.”
Adrian turned in a slow circle, hands trembling. He had been so sure. The tower had been the answer, the end of the questions, the place where everything could finally be undone and he could find her.
Instead, it mocked him with emptiness.
“Seal it,” he said hoarsely. “Post guards. No one enters or leaves.”
The disappointment hit him harder on the drive back to the palace. The city lights blurred as dusk settled, and every step felt heavier than the last. This was the second time hope had risen so sharply only to collapse beneath him. The first had taken months to recover from. This one carved deeper.
In his chambers, Adrian dismissed everyone and stood alone, staring at the wall where Athalia’s portrait once hung. He had removed it after the first year—not because he stopped loving her, but because seeing her face every morning felt like being accused of something he could not fix.
He poured wine and didn’t drink it.
“Where are you?” he asked the silence.
Far from the palace, far from the tower, the question echoed faintly through a body that barely breathed.
Athalia lay on a narrow cot inside a small hut that leaned against the forest like it needed support. Smoke curled from a hole in the roof, carrying the bitter scent of crushed herbs. Outside, night insects hummed, unaware of how close death lingered inside.
Her skin burned and froze at once. Sweat dampened her hair, plastering it to her temples. Her breathing was shallow, and uneven.
The witch doctor knelt beside her, hands stained green and black, fingers steady despite his age. He pressed a poultice against Athalia’s abdomen, muttering words older than the forest itself.
“Stubborn,” he murmured. “Very stubborn.”
He had found her four days ago, lying near the riverbank, barely alive. No tracks and no sign of how she arrived there. Just a woman wrapped in torn silk, magic clinging to her like a second skin.
He had dragged her here, fed her teas she could not swallow, cooled her fever with water drawn under moonlight. Each day he had wondered if it was enough.
On the fourth night, Athalia’s fingers twitched.
The witch doctor stilled, watching.
Her lashes fluttered. A sound escaped her throat—not a word, but a breath forced through pain.
“Easy,” he said softly, pressing her back as she tried weakly to move. “You are not ready to stand. You are still weak.”
Her eyes opened.
They were unfocused at first, dark with confusion. Then awareness flickered, sharp and sudden.
She gasped and tried to sit up, a cry tearing free as pain flared through her.
“No,” the witch doctor said firmly. “Lie still.”
“Where...” Her voice cracked. “Where am I?”
“Im guessing in a place you needed to be.,” he replied.
Her gaze snapped to him, wary despite her weakness. “Who are you?”.
“A man who knows herbs,” he said lightly. “And death, when it comes too close.”
She swallowed, breath uneven. “Who brought me here?”
He hesitated.
Athalia’s eyes sharpened. “Answer me.”
“I did,” he said at last.
"How did you know I was in the tower?" She snapped . "Did you imprison me?"
But before he could speak, she took a dagger out.
“I would advice retreat."
"I will not listen to someone who imprisoned me and took my son."
"Son?"
The man thought for a while.