65
Jules
The maid leads us down a corridor I’ve never seen before—one that feels older than the rest of the Crimson Spires, like it was built when people still believed in cathedrals and curses with the same unwavering certainty.
The air changes as we walk. It gets cooler…stiller. Even the carpet beneath my shoes seems to muffle sound—swallowing our footsteps as if the Spires themselves are holding their breath.
Hanna leans on me—light as a shadow. Every few steps her knees wobble, and fear spikes through me so sharp I taste it, like pennies on my tongue. I tighten my arm around her waist, trying to give her some of my steadiness…trying not to think about what Lucian said.
A week, he’d said. A week and she’ll be drawn behind the Bone Gates. But it hasn’t even been a whole day and she’s already fading!
I can’t let my mind go there—I can’t. If I imagine Hanna fading away into that skeletal nightmare kingdom, I’ll start crying and I won’t stop.
The maid opens a pair of towering double doors—dark wood carved with thorned roses and chalices and strange sigils that make my skin prickle when I look at them too long. She steps aside with a small curtsy.
And we walk into?—
Oh my God.
It’s the biggest ballroom I’ve ever seen but it isn’t just a ballroom—it’s a cathedral dressed up as a palace. The ceiling soars so high it feels impossible, ribbed like the inside of a vast stone beast. Crimson draperies fall in heavy folds from iron balconies and arched floor-to-ceiling windows that stretch upward. The light in here isn’t sunlight and it isn’t candlelight—it’s something in-between—a low red-gold glow that makes everything look like it’s caught in permanent autumn dusk.
The floor is a sheet of glossy black obsidian, so polished it mirrors the room like dark water. When I take a step, my reflection slides beneath me like I’m walking on a frozen lake.
At the far end of the room, a chandelier hangs like a crown of rubies—faceted crystals that catch the reddish light and scatter it into blood-colored sparks. The whole place smells faintly of old roses and incense…until another scent hits me.
It’s metallic and sharp—copper and salt. It can only be one thing?—
Blood.
My stomach turns as I glance down…and my breath catches in my throat.
A vast pentagram has been drawn in blood across the obsidian floor—the lines thick and gleaming, every edge precise. It looks wet…it looks fresh. The sight of it is so surreal—so wrong and ritualistic—that for a second my brain refuses to accept it as real.
Then I see Lucian.
He stands near the center of the ballroom, huge and immaculate, like he stepped out of a dark fairy tale. Whistler is with him, slouching the way he always does like none of this is impressive, but he’s being quiet and looks more alert—like he can feel the stakes humming in the air.
Lucian’s gaze snaps to me the instant I enter, and something tightens in my chest. He lifts one hand and motions for me to come to him.
“Come, my darling—we must hurry while the blood is still fresh.”
His voice is low and controlled but I can hear strain under it—like he’s holding something back with sheer force of will.
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry.
“That's an awful lot of blood,” I say faintly. “Whose is it?”
His eyes flick briefly to the pentagram, and then back to me—steady and unflinching.
“Mine, of course—for I will be calling this portal into existence. With the help of Whistler, of course.”
He nods at the Realm-Hopper who nods back respectfully.
For a second, I just stare at the pentagram—so much blood, all spilled for me.
Lucian bled himself—bled himself enough to paint the floor with it—because of me. And because of Hanna.
Because he’s letting me go.
