Maybe having her around would not be as bad as I thought.
We began climbing the winding staircases—stone steps narrowing as we ascended, the air thinning, walls whispering of ancient enchantments. When we passed Malachi’s door, I paused.
Something dark curled under the threshold, thin tendrils of shadow slipping across the floor before vanishing.
Lysara opened the last door at the end of the hall. “Santiago’s.”
His room was warm and well-appointed. Carved wood bed, cozy fire, a tall window looking out into the mist-veiled gardens.
Santiago stepped in with a quiet hum of approval. “I don’t know,” he said dryly, “I think my cell below might be a bit nicer.”
Then Lysara turned toward a section of the wall, brushing her hand along the stone. A latch clicked, and a hidden door eased open.
She stepped inside, glancing around with a soft expression. “It’s been quite some time since I’ve stayed here,” she murmured, fingertips trailing lightly along the edge of the vanity. “But it looks exactly as I left it.”
Pale, ethereal, simple. The walls were pearlescent, the linens a whisper of lavender, delicate but elegant—like Lysara herself.
We made our way through another hidden door connected to another room.
“Here we are. If there is anything you’d like to change, please do let me know. We have great…” Lysara’s voice trailed off as I made my way into the room.
My room was unexpected.
Green vines curled around carved shelves built into the walls. They were already filled with books. Soft emerald tapestries hung from ceiling to floor, catching the light in muted waves. A writing desk stood beneath a tall window, and across from it, a vanity with an antique mirror. The bed—a towering four-posterwrapped in moss-toned linens and golden trim—looked impossibly soft, like a place to drown in warmth. I ran my hand over the blankets and nearly sighed at the softness.
It reminded me of my room at home, but elevated, richer, more curated. Everything there had been mismatched but comforting and soft with wear.
But here… here, the curtains weren’t makeshift or tattered. The linens weren’t patched by hand. It was all just… more. Too perfect. Too intentional. Too unfamiliar.
I swallowed the ache rising in my chest, brushing my fingers once more over the soft linens.
“Let’s get you ready for this evening,” Lysara said gently, gesturing toward a side alcove I hadn’t noticed before.
A curved archway led into a bathing chamber—stone-tiled and softly lit with wall sconces that glowed like fireflies. A clawfoot tub rested beneath a stained-glass window, pale green and amber light filtering through the glass and dancing over the tiled floor. Shelves were built into the stone walls, stacked with delicate jars of oils, soaps, and neatly folded towels softer than anything I’d ever touched.
To the right was another doorway, tall, arched, and carved with delicate ivy leaves. When I peeked inside, I found a wardrobe that seemed larger than my entire bedroom back home. Gowns in rich fabrics lined one wall, soft shoes and ornate cloaks along the other. Velvet-lined drawers and mirrored cabinets glittered faintly under warm lamplight. I stepped back, unsure if this was a wardrobe or a secret passage to another realm.
Then there was the other thing—a strange spigot hanging from the ceiling in the bathing area, encased in sculpted copper vines. It loomed above a tiled corner.
“What is that?” I asked, wrinkling my brow.
Lysara smiled, amused. “It’s called a shower. It pours waterfrom above, like standing beneath rainfall, only warm. Quite soothing, once you get used to it.”
I blinked at it, still skeptical. “You want me to bathe under a ceiling pipe?”
She laughed softly. “You’ll learn to love it.”
I turned back to the tub—thankfully more familiar. A bath had already been drawn, steam rising in gentle coils. The scent of rose and sandalwood wrapped around me, softening the edges of my nerves. I reached for the buttons of my dress and undressed slowly, my fingertips trembling more than I’d admit.
“I’ll leave you to it then.” The door closed quietly behind her.
As I undressed, I caught my reflection in the mirror.
The scar—the one I’d always known—cut a familiar path beginning just beneath my brow. It was an old story written across my skin. It continued down the center of my chest, threading between my breasts, then along the line of my stomach. At my navel, it twisted again, wrapping around my side and snaking toward my back. No matter how many times I looked at it, it always felt like it was still being written.
“Who is your patron?”
The memory surged without warning.