Chapter 70
They moved like shadows through the broken skeleton of the fortress, slipping into the outskirts of the ceremony under the cover of stolen robes. Alaric’s steps slowed as they passed what remained of a shrine half-swallowed by the crumbled wall. He glimpsed it for a moment, but it rooted something in his chest.
A broken statue.
Vael’Ara—once. Or what was left of her. Her marble loom had been shattered, her face had caved in on one side, the lines of her jaw cracked like old pottery. The moon had caught behind her fractured head at the right angle, casting a pale, eerie halo.
The goddess of creation. Crippled and forgotten, buried beneath years of moss, soot, and silence. A symbol not just of what had been lost—but of what they had done. Of what the world had chosen to forget.
Alaric hurried to catch up with the rest, head low. Beside him, Cedric kept pace with a blade hidden beneath his cloak, Vesena was quieter, every breath controlled, eyes flicking toward the darkened corners of the Ivory Bastion as if mapping every escape. Ravik walked just behind them, breathing heavily, his limp more pronounced with every step.
They slipped in through the old crumbled entrance, ducking past a half-fallen column slick with moss, then melded into the line of late arrivals gathering near the outer ring. No one stopped them. No one even looked twice.
In the center of the shattered once hovering courtyard, where knights might have sworn oaths, a crude altar had been erected from broken stones. A man stood before it, arms lifted high, voice echoing in a low, fevered chant that slithered through the cold night air. A dozen or so priests in brown robes sat downone by one on the stones laid out before the altar, swaying back and forth, their voices rising and falling in a guttural rhythm, chanting in a tongue too old for comfort. Every nerve in his body thrummed with the need to move faster, to shove aside the figures in front of him and charge down the passage. But he didn’t. Not while she might still be alive.
He felt like he was walking straight into the mouth of a myth. A ritual from before the Sundering. It should’ve felt like a revelation.
Instead, it felt like horror.
And for the first time in his life, Alaric prayed.
He prayed to anyone who might be listening, that they wouldn’t be too late. That she would be there.
Around the perimeter, armed mercenaries prowled, twice the priests. For one moment, Alaric thought they might have been caught but they barely spared them a glance. To them, Alaric and the others were just another cluster of robed fanatics drawn in to witness whatever grim spectacle was about to unfold.
That suited Alaric just fine.
Right now, he had only one purpose.
Save them.
Keeping his head low, he nudged Vesena and Cedric subtly and made for the back, slipping into the last of the worn stone benches that lined the ruined chapel space.
They sat stiffly, the damp stone cold against their spines, pretending to murmur prayers with the rest of the throng. He lifted his face to look again at the altar. And there, bound to the stone like some offering to forgotten gods, was Evelyne guarded by two mercenaries.
Her nightgown, now little more than torn silk and stubborn dignity, clung to her like second skin. Blood stained her wrists and face. Her skin was pale under the moonlight, the hollows of her cheeks stark against the softness of her mouth. Butshe hadn’t flinched. Of course she hadn’t. She was probably memorizing every face here, planning their ruin.
And just behind her, curled close as if he’d never intended to let go, lay Thalen. He was tucked against Isildeth, his small body pressed tight to hers.
Alaric stood up abruptly, fist clenched—then froze. A mercenary’s gaze swept lazily across the benches, lingering just a fraction too long in his direction. The man frowned, eyes narrowing, and for one heartbeat Alaric thought the whole thing was over before it began. Cedric began to pull the blade from beneath the cloak.
Alaric adjusted his hood, but his gaze snagged on a man’s neck. It was there, torchlights dancing across the ink. A symbol. Circular, fractured down the middle.
Alaric’s stomach dropped.
He recognized that mark.
It was ancient, illegal, and thought to be lost. Once used in underground mage circles to identify vessels. Those rare individuals capable of holding aetheric resonance without immediate rupture.
The moment stretched, taut and thin. Then, a shout from the other edge of the circle drew the man’s attention away.
Alaric exhaled through his nose as he sat down. His heart slammed once, painfully hard against his ribs, and for a moment he thought he might truly lose control. He gripped the bench so hard his knuckles ached.
Hold it together,he ordered himself savagely.They need you to think.
Ravik leaned in, nodding towards the altar. “It’s the Keeper Halwen.”
Alaric flicked his eyes toward the man leading the ritual. He felt a grim, ugly disgust settle in his chest.So that's why youmissed the wedding, old man. Too busy polishing the dagger you meant to plant in her back.
