I barely care.
I need answers.
The stablehands barely have time to react before I’m saddling my horse, tightening the straps with fingers that shake from more than adrenaline. The cold bite of the morning air slices through my clothes, but I barely feel it.
Celeste is out there.
And I’m going to find her.
Or gods help me—I’ll burn the world down trying.
ChApter
Forty-Seven
Celeste
Iwake to silence.
Not the familiar stillness of Ivystone, where the distant murmur of guards and the occasional hoot of an owl drift through the night. Not the shuffling of feet as the servants prepare the castle for the day. This silence is thicker, weighted, like the air itself is pressing in around me.
My body is sluggish, my limbs aching in a way that doesn’t feel like simple exhaustion. My head throbs, a dull, pulsing ache at the base of my skull. I reach up, inspecting my scalp, to find a swollen bump that’s sensitive to the touch. My throat is raw, my limbs as heavy as stone. For a moment, I can’t remember where I am. The bed beneath me is too stiff, the air too cold. Not Ivystone. Not Delasurvia.
Not… safe.
I blink against the dim light filtering through a small window, my vision sharpening slowly. Despite the panic building in my chest, I sit upwith a groan, the blankets stiff with embroidery and the chill biting through to my bones. The chamber is unfamiliar, vast and grim, stone walls slick with moisture, the windows tall and narrow like arrow slits. Frost grips the corners of the glass, a pale shimmer that makes everything feel… dead.
The bed beneath me is simple but not unpleasant. The sheets are soft, the wool blanket heavy against my legs. The walls are stone, adorned with a delicate woven tapestry depicting a winter landscape. A wooden table sits near the hearth, a single chair tucked beneath it. A small basin rests on a side table, a cloth neatly folded beside it.
Everything is pretty, comfortable—but wrong.
Because this is not Ivystone.
And I don’t know how I got here.
I’m still wearing the clothes I pulled on when—
A shudder runs through me as the memories come flooding back.
The note. The stables. Nadya’s warning. And then the fear in her eyes.
The chemical smell.
Torbin.
My stomach knots so violently I think I might retch. I was right. Torbin lives. And it was his hands that dragged me from the stables. My chest tightens, breath coming too fast, and I clutch the bed frame to steady myself. Of course it was him. Of course.
The door creaks open. I flinch, instinctively reaching for a dagger that isn’t there. I sit up too quickly, my head swimming as a figure steps inside. I immediately jump to the opposite side of the bed and take a defensive stance.
A woman enters—middle-aged, small in stature, sharp cheekbones, and a long braid falling over one shoulder. She’s bundled in layers of dark wool with the skirt of her grey dress scraping the floor. She’s holding a tray, steam curling from a delicate porcelain teacup.
She meets my gaze, her expression calm, unreadable.
“Who are you?” I rasp. “Where am I?”
She says something softly, but the words are garbled, alien. Astrange, sharp rhythm to them. It’s not the common language, but I’ve heard this dialect before. From the refugees we rescued. It’s Dulcamaran.
I shake my head. “I don’t—I don’t understand you.”
