I recoiled, shielding my eyes. The air in front of the wall shimmered, oily and distorted. The smell of burnt sugar filled the space, the distinctive, cloying scent of Veil magic being unmade. The illusion rippled, fighting the house’s gold light, but the manor was relentless. It tore the false image apart. The plain wall dissolved and behind it stood an ancient door reinforced with bands of iron that looked more like shackles than hinges. And while the rest of the wing was draped in the gentle, grey dust of abandonment, this door was clean.
I took a step closer, and nausea rolled in my stomach. The other doors in the manor felt dormant, or in the case of the library, petulant. This one feltsick. A low, rhythmic thrum emanated from the wood, a beat that was inextricably wrong. It felt like the fever-heat I had felt radiating from the wyrmling, and just like the erratic pulse I had sensed beneath Fenrik’s ribs.
My hand hovered over the iron latch, but I couldn’t make my fingers close around it. A memory flashed through my mind, of the blue ceramic dragon I’d found shattered in my room. The shards had been a promise of violence against me. Was I walking into the belly of the beast? Mrs. Crane said the house had opinions, but madness was an opinion, too. I took a step back, the golden light of the corridor now feeling less like a guide and more like a lure.
“I can’t,” I said, turning away. “I’m not—“
A scuffing sound from the high stone ledge above the doorframe cut me off. I looked up just as a small, dark shape tipped over the edge.
I flinched, throwing my hands up to shield my face, bracing for the crash of pottery on stone.
No sound came, so I peeked through my fingers. The object had fallen, yes, but inches from the floor, the air had seemed to thicken, catching it in an invisible net before setting it down. It rolled gently until it bumped the toe of my boot. It was my missing dragon. The emerald-green one with the chipped tail, the one I hadn’t been able to find this morning.
It sat there, whole, staring up at me with painted eyes.
The breath left me in a rush. The house hadn’t broken the other one. It had hidden this one to keep it safe. It was a clumsy, desperate plea in the only language the manor could speak.Trust me.A wet, sniffing sound behind me made me spin around, magic already pooling hot in my palms.
Kirion stood at the intersection of the corridor, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. He was swaying slightly, his movements still jerky from the curse’s lingering tremors, but his amber eyes were bright.
“You,” I let out a breath. “You are supposed to be resting in a basket of warmed wool.”
He let out a chirp that sounded suspiciously like a hiccup and trotted forward. He stopped at my side and head-butted my shin hard enough to bruise.
“Oh, I see,” I rubbed the spot, trying to look stern. “You’re a fierce reinforcement.”
He sat down with a heavythump, his long tail curling around his paws, and looked at the ominous black door. Then he looked at me, tilted his head, and let out a soft, inquisitivemrrp?
“Yes, it feels awful,” I agreed, scratching the velvety spot behind his ear. “But the house says we have to go in. And since you’re barely the size of a badger and I’m armed with a ceramic toy, I think we’re ready for anything.”
He puffed a tiny smoke ring in response.
“Right,” I muttered, scooping up the green dragon and shoving it into my pocket.
“Fenrik is brooding in the basement,” I told the little beast, eyeing his twitching tail. “Usually, familiars are glued to their masters when they’re spiraling into existential torment. Is he too melodramatic for you today?”
The wyrmling sneezed, a spray of silver sparks hitting the flagstones. He gave me a flat, amber-eyed look that seemed tosay:he is ignoring me, and your pockets have crunchier textural possibilities.
“Point taken,” I smiled. “Melodrama is exhausting on an empty stomach.”
But the lightness faded as my gaze returned to the door. The golden light of the manor stopped dead at the iron jamb. It curled back like a tide hitting a seawall. The stone surrounding the frame was pitted and scarred, as if the house had been trying to chew this door out of its own body for years. Mrs. Crane was right. This wasn’t a haunting actually. I knew this desperation, I’d seen it in the stray drakes that sometimes limped onto the infirmary porch, hissing and snapping with infection-born madness even as they thrust a festering limb toward me.
“You can’t get in there, can you?” I whispered to the walls, running a thumb over the scarred mortar. “Something is blocking you.”
The golden light pulsed once—a slow, sorrowful throb. The wyrmling pressed against my leg.
“Together, then,” I said. I gripped the cold iron handle and pulled.
sixteen
Lysa
Ipushed the door open and stepped in what I could only describe as deafening silence. Kirion’s claws, usually a rhythmicclick-click-clickon the stone, hit the floor with absolute soundlessness. I watched his mouth open in a hiss that should have been audible, but the air refused to carry the vibration. It pressed against my eardrums, thick and suffocating.
I stepped carefully around the center of the room. The floor there was destroyed. A scorched scar dominated the granite, spiraling outward like a starburst. But this wasn’t soot or ash. The stone itself had been transmuted by heat so intense it had liquefied the rock into black, rippled glass. I crouched, hovering my hand over the slick surface. It felt cold to the touch and radiated a chill that bit through my calluses, the ghost of a magical backlash.
To my left, shelves lined the curvature of the walls, packed tight with journals. I reached for one, but my fingers skidded over the spine. They were fused together. The leather had melted into a solid, resinous block, sealing whatever secrets lay inside. Someone had been thorough about silencing this room.
A tall, arched frame dominated the far wall, but instead of looking out onto the cliffs or the sea, it looked into... nothing. Or rather, it looked into the pure static of raw magic.
