Chapter 13: Ashes in the North
The wind off the northern highlands bit into Elias's skin like sharpened glass. The road had narrowed to little more than a muddy track, winding through jagged hills that seemed to close in with each mile. To the east, black pines marched up the slopes, their tops lost in low clouds. To the west, the land dropped into a gorge where a river boiled white against ancient stone.
They had been riding for two days without rest. Marcellus, still pale from the wound he had taken in the palace, swayed in the saddle but said nothing. Every time Elias suggested a halt, his old friend merely tightened his jaw.
"They won't kill her quickly," Marcellus said finally, breaking a long silence. "She's too valuable."
Elias didn't answer. He knew Marcellus was right, but the thought of Isabella in the hands of the Raven—or worse, the Crimson Conclave—was enough to turn his blood to ice.
By the time they reached the first village, the light was dying. Smoke hung in the air, the heavy scent of burning flesh beneath it. The houses were blackened shells, their roofs collapsed, doors torn from hinges. No voices rose to greet them, no animals stirred.
"They came through here," Elias murmured.
Marcellus dismounted, crouching beside a charred doorway. "Two days at most. They're driving north, toward the ruins."
"The Conclave?"
Marcellus nodded grimly.
Elias's gaze swept the village square. At the far end, a chapel still stood, its wooden spire half-burned but not fallen. The door creaked as he pushed it open, the scent of smoke and incense mingling inside.
A figure moved in the shadows.
She was young, no more than twenty, her gown singed at the hem and streaked with soot. In her hands she clutched a silver censer, the chain wrapped tightly around her wrist. Her eyes were wide but not frightened—more like a deer caught between flight and stillness.
"You're not with them," she said.
"No," Elias replied. "We're looking for someone they took."
The girl hesitated, then stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "They came for the relic. The Black Thorn. The Raven carried it himself."
Marcellus stiffened. "That's not possible. The Thorn was sealed in the vaults of—"
"It was," the girl interrupted. "Until three nights ago."
Elias studied her. "And you are?"
"Celina. I… I was an acolyte here. Before the fire."
Her hands trembled, but her gaze was steady. "They're going to the Shadow Abbey. No one goes there and comes back. Not alive. Not unchanged."
The name struck a chord in Elias's memory—a place whispered about in the darker corners of taverns, said to stand where the veil between worlds thinned. A place where the dead might speak, and the living might lose themselves forever.
They left the village before dawn, Celina riding behind Marcellus. She claimed to know a hidden path through the northern passes, one that could put them ahead of the Conclave's caravan. Elias wasn't sure whether to trust her—every instinct told him she carried secrets—but time was their enemy.
The mountains rose higher, their peaks lost in veils of mist. Snow began to fall, soft at first, then heavier, until the world narrowed to the circle of breath before his face.
When they stopped to rest the horses, Celina knelt in the snow, tracing symbols with her fingertip. Elias recognized them—not fully, but enough to know they were older than the kingdoms, older than the Church.
"Where did you learn that?" he asked.
She looked up at him, snowflakes clinging to her lashes. "My mother was of the Ashen Order. She said these marks keep the veil closed. But here…" She glanced at the looming mountains. "Here, the veil is already thin."
That night, Elias dreamed. He stood in a ruined hall lit by moonlight through shattered windows. Isabella was there, her sapphire gown torn, her hands bound in crimson silk. The Raven stood behind her, his mask gleaming.
"Choose," the Raven's voice echoed. "The woman, or the crown."
Before Elias could move, the floor cracked, shadows spilling upward like smoke, swallowing Isabella whole. He woke with his sword in his hand, the echo of her scream still in his ears.
By midday, they reached the edge of the high pass. Below them, in the white valley, a line of crimson-cloaked riders wound their way toward a black shape crouched against the mountainside. Even from here, the Shadow Abbey seemed wrong—its towers leaning at unnatural angles, its stones darker than the snow around them, as if they drank the light.
Celina crossed herself, whispering something in a tongue Elias didn't know.
"We'll wait until nightfall," Marcellus said. "Then we go in."
Elias shook his head. "They'll kill her before the rites are complete if they know we're close. We go now."
They descended fast, moving from cover to cover, the crunch of snow loud in the still air. At the edge of the Abbey grounds, they found two sentries and cut them down without a sound. The gates stood open, the wood black with age, and inside the courtyard, crimson-cloaked figures moved in silent precision.
Elias spotted her—Isabella—kneeling before a stone altar, her hands bound, her head bowed. The Raven stood opposite her, chanting in a voice that seemed to pull at the shadows themselves. Beside him, a figure in heavier robes held a blackened thorn branch above her heart.
Elias didn't remember drawing his sword, only the way the air seemed to sharpen around him as he charged. The first Conclave warrior went down with a cut to the throat, the second with a thrust through the ribs. Marcellus was beside him, his blade flashing, Celina moving like a shadow at their backs.
The Raven turned, and for the first time, Elias saw his eyes through the mask—pale, cold, and utterly certain.
"You are too late," the Raven said. "The Thorn is already hers."
Elias reached Isabella, cutting her bonds. Her eyes met his, but there was something in them—a flicker of darkness, a shadow that hadn't been there before.
"They've marked me," she whispered.
Before Elias could speak, the ground beneath the altar split with a deep, resonant crack. From the chasm, a wind rose—cold and foul—and in it, a voice that was not human whispered in a dozen tongues. The shadows lengthened, twisting, reaching for them.
"Go!" Marcellus shouted, dragging Elias back.
But Isabella didn't move. She turned toward the chasm, her face pale but calm, as if listening to something only she could hear.
Then she stepped forward.
Elias grabbed her arm. "Isabella—"
She looked at him, and for a heartbeat, her eyes were not her own.
They barely escaped the Abbey, the shadows chasing them into the snow until the gates vanished in the mist. When they finally stopped, miles away, Elias turned to Isabella.
"What happened back there?" he demanded.
She only smiled faintly, touching the diamond at her throat. "Some doors, Elias… once opened, cannot be closed."
And though she still looked like the woman he knew, Elias could not shake the feeling that the Isabella he loved had been left behind in the Abbey, and the one before him was… something else.