Chapter 123 CHAPTER 123
Ethan sat at the long oak table near the center of the room in the palace library. His shoulders tense, sleeves rolled up, fingers stained faintly with dust and ink. Books lay open in front of him, stacked beside him, scattered on the floor around his chair. Some were upside down. Others were marked with slips of paper where he had stopped, skimmed, and moved on again.
None of them gave him what he needed.
For days now, he had lived among these pages. Meetings postponed. Meals forgotten. Sleep taken only in shallow fragments when exhaustion finally dragged him under. He had told himself it was duty, that a king had the right - no, the obligation - to search for answers when his people were threatened.
By the time evening settled over the palace, the library was still awake.
Golden lamps burned low between towering shelves, their light spilling over old parchment and leather-bound spines. The windows reflected the darkening sky, but Ethan had not noticed the shift from day to night. Time had lost its meaning somewhere between the first manuscript and the fifteenth.
But fear was not the only thing that kept him trapped between these shelves.
There was hope too - dangerous, fragile hope that he did not dare speak out loud.
When Lisa had told him about the dungeon, about the woman who looked too much like the mother from the palace portraits to be coincidence, something inside him had cracked open. For years, he had carried the quiet belief that their mother had not truly died, that she was still alive somewhere waiting to be rescued.
In the past after the queen and princess had disappeared, Ethan had watched everyone else mourn them. The council elders, the nobles, distant relatives - each of them had stood beneath black banners and spoken words of farewell. There had been a ceremony, a memorial, a day the kingdom was told to let go.
Even as a boy, Ethan had stood among them with clenched fists and a still face, reciting the words only because they were demanded of him. He had bowed his head because he was told to bow, not because he believed a single word of it.
He had never accepted their death. Not once.
While the world buried his mother and sister, Ethan had carried the certainty quietly, stubbornly, refusing to release it even when it earned him pity, even when it earned him silence. Somewhere in him, deeper than reason and older than fear, he had always known they were alive.
Lisa had already proved that.
And now - after all these years - Lisa’s words felt like the first sign, the crack in the lie the world had insisted on telling him. The first proof that the goddess had not planted that certainty in him by accident.
Perhaps it had never been hope at all.
Perhaps it had been a calling.
Lisa had seen her – his mother. Not in a dream. Not in a legend. In a place that should not have been reachable at all.
And if the ritual had malfunctioned badly enough to tear Lisa across realms, then perhaps it had also done something else. Perhaps it had revealed a path that had been hidden all along.
That possibility terrified him almost as much as it gave him hope. Because if this ritual truly held the key to the dungeons, to the witch realm, to the place where his mother might still be breathing—then Ethan could not allow himself to stop searching. Not for Lisa’s sake. Not for his own.
Even if it meant one day stepping through those realms himself.
Even if it meant discovering a truth he might not survive.
Fear that Lisa’s wolf had vanished because of something he had allowed.
Fear that the ritual he had approved had opened doors that could not be closed again.
Fear that when Lisa spoke of other realms, of the Silver City, of a woman who looked too much like the mother they had lost, it was not coincidence but consequence.
He had smiled for her. Reassured her. Told her they would figure it out.
Then he had come here and tried to do exactly that.
Ethan rubbed a hand down his face and leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting to the ceiling. The ache in his neck protested the movement. He exhaled slowly and reached for another book, its cover cracked with age.
Transversal Echoes Between Anchored Souls.
He had already read it. Twice. It spoke of rare events when magic responded not to intention, but to presence. To proximity. To convergence.
Still, he flipped through the pages again, hoping he had missed something.
Nothing.
A soft knock sounded at the entrance.
Ethan didn’t look up at first. “Come in,” he said absently, already scanning the text.
“Knock, knock.”
The voice was familiar enough to pull his attention away from the page.
He looked up to find Isabel standing just inside the doorway, balancing a tray in her hands. She wore a simple sweater and loose trousers, her hair tied back, her expression equal parts fond and unimpressed.
“The staff told me you haven’t eaten since morning,” she said, stepping closer. “I thought I should confirm before you accidentally turn into a ghost.”
“I’m not hungry,” Ethan replied automatically.
Isabel raised an eyebrow. “Take it from someone who gets hungry every two hours. When you’re stressed, your body forgets how to complain properly.”
She set the tray down gently on the table, shifting a book aside without asking. A bowl of stew steamed softly beside a small loaf of bread.
“It’s not much,” she added. “I made it myself. So please, do me the courtesy of pretending you appreciate my effort.”
Ethan glanced at the food, then back at her. “You didn’t have to…”
“Yes, I did,” she cut in, smiling. “Because if you don’t eat it, I’ll stay right here and talk until you do. And I promise, I can outlast you.”
A corner of his mouth lifted despite himself. “You negotiate like a seasoned diplomat.”
“I have my strengths.”
He sighed and reached for the spoon. The first taste surprised him.
“This is… really good,” he admitted. “I didn’t know you could cook.”
Isabel laughed. “I lived alone for years and worked in a café. What exactly did you think I survived on?”
“My apologies,” he said lightly.
She gestured for him to keep eating. “While it’s hot.”
The hunger hit him all at once. He ate faster than he meant to, spoon clinking against the bowl.
“Slow down,” Isabel said. “I wanted you to eat, not choke. I don’t want to be accused of assassinating the reigning king with stew.”
He chuckled and obeyed, finishing the meal more carefully this time. When he was done, the tension in his shoulders had eased, just a little.
“Thank you,” he said sincerely.
She gathered the tray. “I’ll leave you to your ancient enemies.”
Ethan stood. “I’ll walk you back.”
“You don’t have to…”
“It would be rude not to.”
They left the library together, footsteps echoing softly down the corridor. The palace felt quieter at night, as though even the walls were resting.
They hadn’t gone far when a guard approached them, bowing quickly.
“Your Majesty,” the man said. “I was just coming to find you. You have visitors in the main house.”
“At this hour?” Ethan glanced toward the windows. “Is something wrong?”
“They said it was important.”
Ethan’s expression tightened. “Very well.”
They moved quickly now, Isabel falling into step beside him. When they reached the king’s study, Ethan pushed the doors open and froze.
Celestine and Nolan stood near the desk.
Both of them turned at once.
Ethan’s first instinct was worry. “You should have sent word. What’s happened?”
Celestine’s eyes were bright. Not anxious. Not afraid.
If anything, she looked… exhilarated.
“Nothing bad,” she said quickly. “Quite the opposite.”
Nolan nodded. “We didn’t want to wait until morning.”
Ethan hesitated. “Is it serious?”
“Yes,” Celestine replied. “But not in the way you’re thinking.”
They exchanged a glance between them, the kind shared by people who had uncovered something rare and were still wrapping their minds around it.
“We know why the ritual behaved the way it did,” Nolan said.
Ethan’s breath caught. “You do?”
“We’re certain,” Celestine said. “Why Lisa crossed realms. Why her wolf was displaced. Why the magic responded the way it did.”
“And?” Ethan pressed.
Celestine smiled, slow and reverent.
“It all begins,” she said, “and ends with Commander Liam Blackthorne.”
The room seemed to hold its breath.