| |
Jonah sat on the edge of his narrow bed, his hands gripping the edges of the thin mattress as though it might anchor him in place. The whispers in the walls had grown faint, but they hadn’t disappeared entirely. Every now and then, a faint syllable, a sharp hiss, or a strangled gasp would slip through the cracks in the stone.
Sleep was impossible. Every time Jonah closed his eyes, he saw the hollow face of the woman in the archives, her black, empty eyes staring into his soul.
He knows.
A knock at the door broke his spiraling thoughts. Not the sharp, commanding knock of Draven, nor the hollow echo of one of the servants. This was softer, hesitant.
Jonah rose and cracked the door open.
Elara stood on the other side, clutching her shawl tightly around her shoulders. Her expression was sharp, alert, but there was something fragile in her eyes.
“We need to talk,” she whispered.
Jonah nodded and let her inside, locking the door behind her.
Elara moved to the narrow window, her gaze sweeping across the courtyard below. Jonah could just make out a cluster of dark figures moving in formation across the misty stones. Guards? Servants? It was impossible to tell.
“You went into the archives, didn’t you?” Elara said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Jonah hesitated. “Yes.”
“And you saw something,” she continued, her voice trembling slightly.
Jonah nodded again.
Elara turned to face him. “Jonah, whatever you saw, whatever Draven is searching for—it’s bigger than either of us. You know that now, don’t you?”
Jonah swallowed hard. “What is the Vessel, Elara? What does it unlock?”
Elara’s lips tightened into a thin line. She seemed to struggle with her words, as though speaking them aloud might summon something foul.
“It’s not just an object, Jonah. The Vessel is... it’s a conduit. A bridge between this world and something else. Something older, darker. If Draven unlocks it, if he succeeds in opening whatever lies on the other side...”
She trailed off, her gaze falling to the floor.
“Why me?” Jonah asked, his voice breaking slightly. “Why did he bring me here? Why am I involved in this?”
Elara looked up, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Because you’re the key, Jonah. You’re the final piece he needs.”
Jonah stumbled back, his breath catching in his throat. “No. No, that can’t be true. I’m just a scribe. Just some boy from the outer provinces. I don’t—I can’t—”
Elara grabbed his shoulders, her fingers digging into the fabric of his coat. “Listen to me. You still have time. There’s a way out of this, but you need to trust me. Trust yourself.”
Before Jonah could respond, the distant toll of the bells began again—slow, deliberate, each chime reverberating through the stone walls.
Elara’s expression hardened. “He’s summoning you.”
Jonah shook his head. “I can’t face him. Not now. Not after—”
“You don’t have a choice,” Elara interrupted. “But remember this: whatever he tells you, whatever he shows you—don’t let him break you. Don’t let him see your fear.”
Jonah felt as though the air had been sucked from the room. His pulse thundered in his ears.
Elara slipped out of the room, her footsteps light and quick as she disappeared into the corridor.
Jonah was left alone with the fading echoes of the bells.
The grand hall was colder than usual, its towering stone walls dripping with moisture that collected in shallow puddles on the floor. Torches flickered in their sconces, casting jagged shadows across the vast expanse.
Count Draven stood at the far end, his silhouette framed by the massive stained-glass window behind him. The twisted patterns of red and black glass distorted the faint light from outside, making it seem as though the hall itself was bleeding.
“Jonah,” Draven said, his voice smooth and sharp as glass. “Come closer.”
Jonah obeyed, his feet carrying him forward even as every fiber of his being screamed for him to run.
Draven turned slowly, his black eyes fixed on Jonah like twin voids. In his pale hands, he held the ledger—the same cursed book Jonah had pulled from the Forbidden Wing.
“This book,” Draven said softly, almost reverently, “contains knowledge older than kingdoms, older than empires. And you, Jonah, are the final thread that will allow me to unravel its secrets.”
Jonah’s mouth was dry. “Why me? Why not one of your servants? Why not... someone else?”
Draven’s thin lips curled into a cruel smile. “Because, Jonah, you were chosen. Your bloodline carries something... special. Something rare. And it will open the door where others have failed.”
Jonah felt dizzy, his knees weak. “And if I refuse?”
Draven’s smile disappeared.
“Refusal is not an option.”
The Count stepped closer, the ledger still clutched in his pale hands.
“The ritual begins tomorrow night, Jonah. Prepare yourself. Your part in this is inevitable.”
With that, Draven turned and disappeared into the shadows at the far end of the hall, leaving Jonah standing alone beneath the cold, bleeding light of the stained glass.
Jonah’s breaths came in shallow gasps as the weight of Draven’s words crashed down on him.
Tomorrow night.
Time was running out.