Its petals were as black as night, veins of silver pulsing beneath their surface. It glowed from within, alive and defiant, its light burning against the shadows that recoiled from its presence.
The shadows surged, their voices driving through my skull like hooks dragged through flesh.
“The Noctyss must not touch you, Lazarus. Do not open it. Do not breathe it. Do not let it graze your skin. You will be undone. Give it to Amara. She must take the petals. Pluck only a few. Steep them quickly. A brew will be enough. Make him drink. Spill it on him. However, it reaches his flesh—it will neutralize his power.”
My breath came shallow, ragged. My hands trembled as I lifted the glass dome. Even through the barrier, the flower pulsed—alive, sentient, breathing in time with the room. The air around it shimmered, thick with quiet dread.
And it wasn’t alone.
Dozens of vials ringed its pedestal, their contents glimmering in the torchlight—oils, powders, and fluids sealed in crystal and wax. Each one pulsed, faint and rhythmic, like captured heartbeats. Gold, black, and silver writhed together behind the glass, trapped and hungry. The sight churned my stomach.
“What are these?” I breathed, unable to stop staring.
The shadows hissed back, their voices low and dripping with disgust.
“This is what he did with his sacrifices. He forced the flower down their throats. Watched them choke. Watched them melt—skin, bone, soul. Then he bottled what was left. Their ruin. Their agony. Their screams, sealed forever in glass.”
I clenched my fists until my nails cut flesh. Bile rose hot in my throat.
“He kept them,” I whispered. “Not as weapons. Not as tools. Trophies of the horror he made.”
I dragged a breath into my chest, trying to steady the shake in it.
“Amara,” I called, voice rough, hollow. “I found the flower.”
She turned from a shelf crowded with jars and came quickly to my side. Her eyes widened as I lifted the dome into the light.
Inside, the Noctyss unfurled, petals as black as void, veined in molten silver. It moved as if alive, folding and blooming in rhythm with some hidden, ancient pulse. The light it shed was ghostly, more absence than illumination.
Amara’s breath caught. Awe softened her bruises for an instant.
“It’s… beautiful,” she whispered.
My chest tightened. Beautiful. Yes. And lethal. The kind of beauty that begged to be worshiped before it destroyed you.
“I need you to brew it,” I said, forcing steadiness into my voice. “A strong tea—just a few petals. That will be enough.”
“I know how,” she said quickly. But then her eyes darkened. “But not here. I need to do this in my healer’s room.”
“No.” The word cracked from me like breaking stone. “It’s too dangerous to move it. Severen could return at any moment.”
She hesitated—then slowly lifted her hand and pointed upward.
I followed her gaze.
Above us, half-hidden behind the velvet canopy, a narrow shaft split the ceiling. The opening cut clean through the stone, its edges jagged, breathing out a cold draft that smelled of rot and old incense.
Her voice broke with anger and shame when she spoke.
“That’s how he caught me,” she whispered. “I was spying on him through the opening—from my healer’s room. After the guards took you and Salvatore away, I went back. I wanted to find my father’s tome and free him. So, I climbed down the passage and hid inside his chamber.”
Her throat tightened, her gaze falling to the stone floor.
“I thought if I searched long enough, I might find my father’s book,” she said, her voice low and shaking. “But then Severen found me. He chained me to his bed. When I defied him—when I fought him—that’s when he beat me.”
Her voice quavered, but she did not lower her eyes. She met my gaze, fierce through the tremor in her breath.
“Through that passage,” she said, pointing upward, “I can climb back and finish it where it’s safe.”
