I'm certain the High Sage was wrong about one thing.
In the end, nothing will matter, except everything.
I read it again. And again. And again. The stones contain memories.
But memories are just one part of what makes a person whole. What happens when you strip away the rest?
I think of the boy who looked like Cas. The emotions I felt in him before the ceremony. The resistance, the defiance, the desperate anger. I felt something similar once, years ago. It's impossible to fathom that I'd confuse the two, but everything is about perspective, and resistance can feel a lot like hope. But hope doesn't survive what they do to people here.
I look at my hands. My fingernails are stained black from years of work with the elixirs. Every vial I brewed. Every stone I touched. Every extraction I enabled.
I think of the laborers dying in the street, screaming for families they weren't supposed to remember. I think of the pleasure gardens, where grief becomes entertainment.
I helped build all of it.
I think about the Shroud. The Shroudmaidens. We've been told our whole lives to fear them. Soul eaters. Monsters.
But the Shroud feeds on stolen memories. On pain. On everything we've taken from people without their true consent. Maybe the monsters aren't in the forest. Maybe the monsters are us.
Maybe the monster isme.
The weight of it crushes me. I bury my face in my hands. I defended the Sages my entire life. They let us keep our gifts.
They helped us hone them. They gave us purpose. But every elixir I made fed the Shroud. Every stone I filled added to the darkness. I wasn't helping people heal. I was helping the cage grow stronger.
The door creaks open. I don't look up. The bed dips beside me. A hand settles on my back, warm and steady, and his thumb traces slow circles against my spine. I try to stop crying. His gentleness makes it worse.
"Menace." His voice is rough. Quiet.
I take a shaky breath and wipe my face. When I finally look at him, he's glaring at the journal in my lap. He picks it up and tosses it onto the table like it's poisoned. When he turns back to me, his jaw is tight. But his eyes are soft.
"What do you need?"
The question cracks something open in my chest. Notwhat's wrong?Notwhy are you crying?Notwhat did you find?Just,what do you need?
Gods, how many times have I asked people that question, and yet no one has ever asked me. Not my brother. Not my friends. Not the Sages who shaped my entire life. No one has ever considered that I might need anything at all.
I throw my arms around his neck before I can stop myself. He doesn't hesitate. His arms close around me, engulfing me in warmth, in safety, in something I don't have a name for. When the sobs come, he doesn't try to quiet them. He just holds me tighter.
I don't know how long I cry. Long enough for him to shift us both beneath the covers, to lay us down, to pull me against his chest. The sconces extinguish themselves, one by one. The door clicks softly shut—his magic, or mine, I don't know. His arms never leave me. For the first time in days, I sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Istorm through the back doors of the Veritas Estate without acknowledging anyone. My mind is a hive of fury, and I have no patience for pleasantries. I nearly walk past Mara without seeing her. She's stationed outside Mother's office like a nervous sentry.
"Profess—I mean, Ada." She shuffles after me as I brush past. "The High Sage said she won't tolerate any disturbances."
"I'm sure she did."
"And this isn't even … I'm supposed to be interning with Gerri, the High Sage's lead alchemist, but she told me to guard the door while she handled something, and she said if I let anyone disturb the High Sage, I'll be dismissed and I'll never get another opportunity like this, so please?—"
She flinches when I spin to face her. The explosion building in my chest dies the moment I take a good look at her. At the fear in her wide brown eyes and the way she clutches her journal to her chest like a shield. I notice the gold Veritas pin on her lapel. The houndstooth maroon jacket, just like the one I wore at her age.
I've been so consumed with my own survival these past two years that I never let myself see it. She's me. A younger,more hopeful version, still believing in everything I've stopped believing in.
Her brows furrow at my silence. I decide I hate her confusion more than her rambling. At least her rambling comes from genuine curiosity and the need to understand. It's her clinging to what's left of her identity after she made the memory trade.
I don't know what brought her to Lunaris. I only know she's from Lyrionne. Most sirens in Veritas are. I think of what Malachi said about the temples in Tenebris. How parents bring their children, hoping they'll be deemed special.Chosen.
