Sylvera sat on the floor with her back against the wall.
Cold stone. Damp stone. The kind that makes your spine ache even when you try not to notice it. Her dress stuck slightly to the wall where it touched. She hated that. Hated how everything here touched her.
She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. Tight. Too tight, probably. But if she loosened even a little, she felt like she'd fall apart. Like her body would just… open. Split.
Her breath puffed out in small white clouds.
She watched one drift away and vanish.
Stupid thing to focus on, but it was something. It was proof she was still breathing. Still here.
Her hands were shaking. Not wildly. Not obvious. Just enough that she noticed. Just enough that it annoyed her.
She tried to stop it.
It didn't stop.
The castle breathed around her. That was the sick part. The castle wasn't quiet. Even when it was quiet it wasn't quiet. There was always some sound underneath, some slow shift in the stone, some soft groan, like the whole place was sleeping badly.
The whispers came back.
They slid out of the walls. Out of the cracks. Out of nowhere.
"He will break you like the others…"
"…poor lost king…"
"…the forest knows what she did…"
At first it was faint. Like faraway wind. A distant murmur.
Then closer.
Then right in her ear.
Sylvera squeezed her eyes shut.
No.
Not again.
She pressed her nails into her arms until her skin stung. Hard enough to feel it. Hard enough to ground her. Pain was simple. Pain didn't lie. It didn't try to convince you of things. It just existed.
The whispers weren't simple.
They kept crawling.
They slipped into her head and started blending with her own thoughts. That made her stomach twist because… that was the point. That's what the castle wanted.
And suddenly she was thinking it again.
That stupid question.
The one she didn't want.
Is Lorian really a monster?
The thought dropped into her mind like a rock.
She hated it. Hated herself for it.
Because she had seen him. Gods. She had seen him. Blood on his mouth. Hands red. His men feeding. The clearing. The child—
Her stomach rolled hard.
No. He was a monster. He had to be.
But then she remembered his face.
Not the smirk. Not that soft cruel smile.
The other one.
The moment she said Lyria.
His face had changed. Twitched. For a second the mask wasn't there. And it wasn't anger.
It was pain.
Real pain.
The kind you can't fake if you're not already dead inside.
And then the illusion room came back in her mind. Sunlight. Curtains. Warm sheets. Clean air. That lie of safety.
It wasn't meant for her.
That room was his.
His last place that wasn't rot. His last place where he could pretend for a minute that he wasn't… whatever he was now.
Sylvera shook her head hard, like she could shake the thought out.
No.
No, she couldn't do this. She couldn't start feeling sorry for him. Not after what he'd done. Not after what she'd seen. This castle was built on lies. He was built on lies too. He could be acting. He could be playing her again, deeper this time.
And still…
The doubt stayed.
It sat there in her chest like a pebble you can't cough out.
Because of the forest creature.
Because of what it said.
"Lorian's little witch."
Her skin prickled.
She could still see it. That creature. Too tall. Too thin. Antlers like twisted branches. A grin that didn't belong on anything alive. It had sniffed her air. Studied her. Like she was something known. Something familiar.
And then it called her that.
Not stranger.
Not prey.
Not witch.
His.
How?
She'd never been there before. Never stepped into that forest until she ran.
Unless it wasn't random.
Unless it wasn't chance.
Unless it had been waiting.
For her.
Her throat tightened.
Waiting.
That word made her feel sick.
Why would it wait for her?
What did it want?
What did it know?
She squeezed her knees harder. Her hands hurt. She didn't care.
Then a voice slid into her mind.
Not the usual whispering mess. Not many voices this time.
One.
Low.
Old.
Heavy in a way that made the air feel smaller.
"Because you belong to him."
Sylvera jerked, like someone had grabbed her ribs and squeezed.
Her heart slammed against her chest. Hard. Painful.
That voice didn't feel like the castle.
It didn't feel outside.
It felt… inside her.
That was worse. So much worse.
Her magic stirred under her skin, restless. Not gentle. Not soft. It curled in her chest and fingertips like smoke trapped behind teeth. Like something pacing in a locked room.
She pressed her palm to her sternum.
Stop.
Please stop.
It didn't stop.
It flared faintly, burning her just enough to make her eyes sting.
Her mouth was dry. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth when she swallowed.
What if it's not the castle whispering?
Her thoughts ran too fast.
What if it's me?
Her magic had been strange since she got here. It reacted before she could think. It flared without warning. It felt… wrong. Or maybe not wrong. Maybe just not hers.
Sometimes it felt like it remembered things she didn't.
That thought made her sweat cold.
Because magic shouldn't remember without you.
Unless you're missing something.
Unless part of you has been cut out and the magic is trying to fill the gap.
She stared down at her hands. Her fingers were scraped. Blood dried under her nails. Little bits of dirt from the woods still stuck in her skin.
She remembered the forest creature again. It hadn't attacked right away. There had been a pause.
That pause mattered.
It tilted its head. Like it was listening.
Like it was thinking.
Then it lunged.
Violent.
Fast.
But what if it wasn't hunger?
What if it was fear?
What if it sensed something in her and panicked?
What if it wasn't trying to kill her…
What if it was trying to warn her?
Sylvera's breathing went rough. Too loud in the cell. She hated the sound. She tried to slow it.
It wouldn't slow.
She didn't want to be scared.
But she was.
Not of Lorian.
Not of the undead court.
Not even of the castle.
She was scared of herself.
Scared of what might be inside her. Scared of what might wake up. Scared of what she might become once the truth is pulled out into the light.
And the worst part?
She asked for this.
She demanded it.
She demanded to see where Lyria died.
She wanted the truth so badly she thought she could swallow it whole.
Now she wasn't sure she could survive it.
The whispers faded after a while. Slowly. Reluctantly. Like a tide pulling back.
The cell went quiet.
Not peaceful.
Quiet in that way that feels wrong. Quiet in the way a room gets quiet before something awful happens.
Sylvera could feel the stone under her watching her.
She didn't know how she knew.
She just did.
Everything here waited.
The castle waited.
The shadows waited.
The forest waited.
Midnight waited.
Sylvera hugged her knees tighter and shut her eyes.
She listened to her heartbeat.
To her magic.
To the dark.
Because somewhere in all that noise, the answer had to exist. It had to.
She didn't know what she'd find when Lorian returned.
She didn't know what the place of Lyria's death would show her.
But she knew one thing.
She wasn't running again.
Not this time.
Truth was better than lies.
Even if it broke her. Even if it ruined her. Even if she didn't come back from it the same.
Because the whispers weren't going to stop.
Because the castle wasn't going to let her go.
Because she wasn't just trapped in the story now.
She was the story.
She pressed her palms over her ears.
It did nothing.
The whispers came back harder. Meaner. Sharper.
"He's lying to you…"
"…you'll end up like the others…"
"…why do you think the forest creature knew your name?…"
Her temples throbbed. The edges of her vision blurred. The pressure in her chest built, built, built, until she couldn't breathe right.
The air felt thick. Dusty. Wrong. Her throat scratched when she inhaled.
She dragged her nails into her scalp, desperate for pain to drown it.
It didn't.
It only sharpened it.
The whispers turned into feelings. Panic. Pressure. A hand closing around her heart.
She couldn't stand.
Couldn't think.
Couldn't fight.
She just sat there shaking and begging silently for it to stop.
Just one moment. Please. Just one—
Darkness.
She didn't know how long she slept. Minutes or hours.
She only knew when the air changed.
Something entered.
Something heavy.
Something cold.
Her eyes snapped open.
No torchlight.
No moonlight.
Just darkness.
Not normal darkness.
Darkness that felt thick. Hungry. Alive.
Sylvera sat up fast, heart racing. Her hands hit cold stone.
She looked around.
And then she saw it.
A shadow.
Huge.
Looming in the far corner of the cell.
Not a person.
Not a shape she could name.
Just darkness gathered into something that didn't belong.
It didn't move.
But she knew it was watching.
She felt it on her skin like frost.
Her breath sped up. Panic rose.
The shadow twitched.
Not stepping.
Pulsing.
As if it was breathing.
As if it was smiling at her fear.
She knew it.
She knew it was smiling.
A scream tore out of her without permission. Sharp. Wild.
The shadow lunged.
The door burst open with a crack that made the cell jump.
Lorian stormed in.
His hands glowed violet, violent and bright. Like lightning trapped under skin. His eyes snapped to the lunging shadow instantly.
"Back!" he roared.
He threw raw magic at it. Not careful magic. Not controlled magic. Rage-magic.
The shadow recoiled. It shrieked without sound. It thrashed—
Then dissolved into the cracks of the wall, sliding away like smoke sucked into stone.
Gone.
Sylvera collapsed. Shaking so hard her teeth clicked. Her throat burned from screaming.
Lorian dropped to his knees beside her.
"You're safe," he said fast. Too fast. "It's gone."
Sylvera stared at him like she didn't even know what she was seeing. Her hands clutched her chest like she could hold her heart in place.
"What was that?" she whispered.
Lorian looked toward the corners. Toward where the darkness had been.
"Something that should never have gotten that close to you."
His voice was low. Grim.
He pulled off his cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders. The warmth hit her skin and made her shiver harder.
"It's started," he muttered. "The castle knows you're getting too close."
He helped her stand. Her knees buckled. He caught her without hesitation.
"Come," he said. "You can't stay here."
Sylvera didn't argue.
She couldn't.
She leaned into his warmth, still shaking.
The whispers had stopped.
Not because they were done.
Because something worse had come to listen.