It was short, like a vibration pressed through his throat, tight and controlled.
Alaric felt it more than heard it.
The flames died. All of them. The light vanished. Alaric’s vision was swallowed whole. Someone winced and groaned, but no response came. Just the sound of a pair of retreating footsteps.
A tremor rolled beneath their boots, faint at first. Alaric shifted his weight instinctively, bracing one hand against the stone wall. Dust trickled from the ceiling. Small stones fell downfrom a ledge, scattering across the ground. Cedric stilled, one foot sliding slightly on the grit. The vibration deepened, drawing inward, as if something below the surface had stirred. After a few heartbeats the earthquake had stopped, but the echo of it clung to the walls.
But whatever debt had just been drawn here—it was not yet paid.
Chapter 37
The veil was red again.
Evelyne stood where she always did in the dream, halfway between the altar and the exit, frozen by that same invisible bond twisted tight around her ribs.
She knew what came next. The air would grow thick, the stone beneath her feet would groan and then, as always, Dasmon would turn—his mouth carved into silence, eyes emptied, the mark of heresy grinning from his ruined skin.
But this time, it wasn’t Dasmon who stood in the blood.
Not Alaric.
It was Thalen.
His brown curls were soaked red, his tunic clinging to his chest in wet folds. The symbol had been carved into the soft skin just above his collarbone, where no child should bear a curse. His lips parted, as if trying to say her name.
And Evelyne’s knees buckled.
Her stomach flipped, cold and acid, while her vision swam with nausea and dread. The edges of the chapel bled into shadow, warping like glass before it shatters.
No…
She reached for him—but her limbs refused. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Could only watch as blood crept toward her shoes like it wanted her to step forward.
His little boots were too polished for the carnage around him. His hand reached forward. In it, he held the veil. His eyes were sad. Ancient. Far too knowing for a child. And as he opened his mouth to speak, Evelyne heard not her brother’s voice, but something older. A whisper beneath the skin of the world.
The brightest thread will snap.
And the loom will spin again.
The words unfurled into a dry rip of material tearing, as though the very fabric of reality was being pulled apart around her.
Evelyne woke up gasping. The sheets were twisted around her legs, damp with sweat. She reached for the bedside table—missed—then reached again, hand trembling until she found the edge and pressed her palm flat against it.
She was breathing, but the air vanished before it reached her lungs. It scraped down her throat and fade away, offering no comfort.
Her body was still in the dream. The veil, the blood, the sound of the fabric tearing, Thalen’s eyes—
Control. Calm. Focus.
She clung to the words like a spell. But they didn’t work this time. She was still shaking, almost convulsing.
A floorboard creaked outside her door.
Then the soft knock.
“Milady?” Isildeth’s voice came through, muffled but alert. “Are you awake?”
Make it stop.
