“What do you want from me?” I cry out. Far louder than one ought in such a place. I am beyond decorum. I shake the door, the chain clattering.
I am the ghost that haunts this space. I am the specter rattling the chains.
“Why do you call to me?” I feel the crack deep in my core. Fury is an inferno, but the hotter it burns, the faster it dies. So too does the blaze that threatens to consume me. My arms weaken, though my grip does not. Only a faint stir of air answers—my own voice echoing back at me. I sink to the floor, hands slipping to my sides. My head falls into my palms.
Lightning crashes outside. Thunder shakes the stone. The storm returns with new ferocity.
I force myself upright, hands clutching the bars as I pull myself to standing. This storm, this call, it may seek to ruin me, but I will not remain broken. I set my hand atop the lock, neither in surrender nor defeat. More an acceptance.
The storm may rage, but I will rise. I will always rise.
The lock falls.
Completely released. Hanging slack against the chains. I have no words. I cannot even gather a thought. I lift the lock, free the gate, and set it aside. I coax the flame from one of the sconces into a nearby lantern. Stillness holds me, despite the tumult outside, as I slowly open the door.
Lantern held before me, I step with caution.I shouldn’t be here,the tightness in my chest screams it, but the warm gust lures me deeper. The smell of decaying pages and musty air feels both full of warning and welcome.
I descend.
The thunder grows distant, though I know the storm hasn’t let up. I set the lantern aside; it illuminates a gilded tome before me. A prophecy, waiting.
Not only here, on the pedestal, but everywhere. Ancient texts line every shelf. How many have come true? How many wait unfulfilled?
I’m drawn in.
Tableaus, rubbings, scrolls, bound volumes. Artifacts scattered around them. An ancient brass orb etched with intricate designs, jars covered in dust.
And at the back of the room—a dagger.
Its jagged, dulled blade calls me closer. I lean in to look, lightning crackling so near that even here I see its flash along the metal. My hand lifts without my bidding. A sharp prick along my fingertip.
I recoil, scarlet welling.
I step back and bump the pedestal. Startled, my hands land on the open pages.
“No, no, no—” I see it—a smear of red. A small but terrible mark across something sacred. I whirl, wiping at it with my thumb—but it has already soaked into the page. “Dammit.”
A low vibration thrums through my fingertips, up my arm. The air shifts—not a breeze—a pull. The lantern flame quivers. Something stirs—not around me.
In me.
Heat blooms beneath my skin—a molten thread winding up into my shoulder, settling beneath my collarbone. The same place the ache has lived for nights on end. The hum deepens.
A heartbeat—not my own.
Scrolls rustle. Dust trembles loose with each thunder strike. The shelves seem to lean in—not visibly, but sensing, listening. The storm grows louder. I can’t think. My hands rise to my temples, fingers flexing. I can’t take this?—
It’s only when a tear falls from my cheek that I realize I’ve been sobbing.
Something has awakened?—
Something I never asked for, but cannot deny.
I back toward the stairs. The lantern flickers low, nearly forgotten. I stagger into the library. A shudder—mine, or the storm’s—shakes the space. Books tumble from the shelves and thud to the floor. I snatch the lantern and flee, my legs trembling. I run—run from the Sanctum, from whatever it wants of me. Something shatters in the distance—beyond the library—as I reach its doors. Armor clatters as a guard rushes toward the sound.
My heart feels ready to burst. I don’t stop running. The hall warps—distance stretched, then snapped close. Heat flares beneath my ribs. My pulse hammers—and beneath it, a second rhythm.
I can’t breathe. I can’t?—
