The pillow muffled her screams, but only just. Far from enough. Her fists slammed into it, driving it deep into the embrace of her favorite wingback chair.
“Why?” she spat, her voice raw. Another punch, harder this time. “What did I say that’s so wrong? Why won’t they listen?” She hurled the pillow across the room. It struck the wall with a dull thud, and as it slid to the floor, the old seams gave way. A plume of goose feathers erupted, drifting lazily in the still air.
That only made her angrier. She’d liked that pillow.
“Burn. In. Blackfire.”
Vaelen’s voice was quiet, tentative. “You still can’t control your Aethermarks?”
Emberlyth wheeled on her cousin, but Vaelen stood well outside the reach of her fury. Sensible of her. The west-wing saloon, empty save for the two of them, was filled now with a slow snowfall of singed feathers.
“Curses,” Emberlyth muttered, hurrying to smother the smoldering remains with her hands. The last thing she needed was to burn down the estate.
She could already picture her uncle’s face, his arched brow, his slow drawl: I thought you said you’d mastered your marks.
“Sorry,” she muttered, flexing her fingers as the last of the embers died. “It’s just… I don’t get it. I’m eighteen. Most noble brats get their Ascension Path by fifteen. They’re already off to Erboria by then, right?”
She saw how Vaelen stiffened. Her cousin set her teacup down with deliberate care, her hands a touch too steady. Emberlyth knew what to look for—small things, subtle things.
She didn’t press. Vaelen had been young, eager, when she first spoke of Erboria. Of the City in Shadows. Of paths chosen and sealed with whispered rites. Emberlyth had been younger, too, her head full of dreams. She’d tried to sneak into the carriages that very night. It had caused a stir. A big one.
“How much longer do they expect me to stay here?” Emberlyth’s voice softened, though it carried the weight of long-held frustration.
Vaelen hesitated. “I… don’t know,” she said, her words careful. “Going down into the Abyss isn’t all that, though. It’s a mess down there, Ember. You wouldn’t like it.”
“I could help. I could do something. Anything but rot away here.”
“Grandfather must have a plan,” Vaelen tried.
“And what plan is that?” Emberlyth asked, collapsing back into her chair. She buried her face in her hands. “Just tell me. Tell me so I can stop tearing my hair out every. Single. Day. Do you know what it’s like, Vael? Being stuck here for eighteen years?”
“You’ve been to Wilbur's Perch?” Another frail attempt at smoothing things over.
“Once in a blue moon.” Ember huffed. “And always with a caravan of guards that makes everyone nervous. It’s like they think assassins are hiding under every rock.”
Vaelen’s smile was faint. “It’s nice here, though. The estate, I mean. Better than a lot of places I’ve stayed.”
“Then switch places with me.” Emberlyth lifted her head. Vaelen shifted in her seat, her unease palpable. “Not so tempting now, is it? You can’t even run if you wanted to.”
She could almost hear the question Vaelen dared not ask: Do you want to? Instead, Vaelen offered the same tired refrain. “Just wait a little longer, okay? Another season, maybe two. I’ll bring grandfather here myself if I—”
“Like Mister Olsen’s been promising for years?” Emberlyth snorted. She rose, pacing the room with restless energy. “I’m done waiting. I…I am going to Erboria.”
Her fingers clenched in determination. Words would get her nowhere. She saw that now, clear as the rain streaking the windows.
“I’ve been told to stay put one too many times,” she continued as she spun on her heel, heading for the doors. “I’m going down, Vael. Whether they like it or not, I’m going down with you all toda—”
She stopped mid-step, her words caught in her throat.
The shadows of the Third Dreakart Estate had loomed tall all morning, stretched and blurred by the drizzle that tapped lazily against the glass. But even those shadows had limits. They didn’t swallow people whole, and they certainly didn’t spit them out mere inches from her face.
Emberlyth jerked to a halt, nearly colliding with her cousin. Vaelen stood there, calm, unruffled, as if she hadn’t just materialized out of nothing.
“Shadow Step,” Vaelen murmured, her voice quiet but laced with pride. A smile tugged at her lips, trembling with equal parts nerves and relief. For years, Emberlyth had begged her cousin for a glimpse—just a hint—of her Aethermarks. For years, Vaelen had dodged, deflected, her restless hands and averted gaze saying more than her stammered apologies ever could. S-sorry, I’m not really supposed to talk about it…
But now the veil had lifted. Ember could only gape, her mind already alight with questions, her tongue half-formed around words of praise. But before any of them could spill free, Vaelen’s expression lost much of its joy.
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“Look, Ember,” she said softly, her gaze falling to the floor. “I promised Dad I’d talk to you. Just… give it six more months. Another two seasons. I’ll make sure we have an answer from Grandfather by then.”
The words landed like stones, dragging Emberlyth’s heart down with them. The awe drained from her face, leaving something colder, harder in its place. She had hoped at least Vaelen would have her back.
“No,” she said firmly. “I’m done waiting. I’m going down with or without your—”
She took a step forward, intent on brushing past, but Vaelen didn’t move. She stood firm, a small figure made of unyielding stone.
Of the two girls, Emberlyth had always been the one more blessed by her growing years. Once, they’d been equals in height and similar in strength, two children tumbling through the world like a matched pair of firecrackers. But time had played its hand, and Ember had grown tall and sharp-edged, while Vaelen remained small and fine-boned, as delicate as porcelain. A head and a half now separated them, and it wasn’t just the years that divided them; it was the way they had spent them. Ember had chosen the hard path of steel and sweat. Vaelen had walked a quieter road, full of words and courtesy. Play-fighting, once a favorite pastime, had long since fallen by the wayside. The balance had tipped too far, and it was no longer fair.
That’s why they’d stopped.
Or so Ember had thought, until she now tried moving her cousin aside, expecting her to yield. Vaelen didn’t move. She stood as if rooted in place.
That caught her off guard. Twice so when her cousin spoke, her voice low and pleading. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be. Please, Ember. Just a couple of more months… A single season. That’s all I’m asking. I’ll do my best to have—”
“You think you can stop me?” Emberlyth arched an eyebrow.
Even now, she towered over her cousin. She had for years. Surely in this, her younger cousin did at least not look down upon her about. A thousand lonely hours spent with a blade—anything to keep the boredom at bay—surely counted for something even in Vaelen’s eyes? A hundred play-fights where she had never once lost.
Even so, Vaelen didn’t answer immediately. That irked Ember in ways she couldn’t explain.
“What’s the plan, Vael?” she asked, her tone light with mockery. “You’ll talk me to death? Or maybe—”
“I’m not the same kid I used to be,” Vaelen cut in quietly, her voice steady. Her violet eyes met Ember’s, and there was a calm weight in them that Ember wasn’t used to seeing. “I’ve seen my Ascension Path, and you haven’t.”
“Oh-ho,” Ember said, her grin sharpening. She reached out to ruffle Vaelen’s hair, the way she had a hundred times when they were younger. When they were still okay with playing. When their meetings weren’t just stiff talks over bitter tea and avoided topics. “What’s this? Little Vaelen’s all grown up? Thinks she can take her big cousin now?”
Vaelen caught her wrist, gently but firmly. “I know you held back when we were younger. But today…” She sighed, a long, weary sound. So similar to Uncle’s. “I’m not sure I can return the favor.”
For a moment, silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring.
Then Ember leaned in, her grin fading into something colder, more calculating. “Have you become just like them, Cousin? Do you look down upon me despite all these years we have spent together?”
Why did everyone think so little of her? How many hours hadn’t she spent in her lonesome, trying to be everything they could possibly want from her? Yet now, even her baby cousin dismissed her without a second glance.
“Naive, am I?” Ember growled, her voice low and threatening. “Sheltered? You really think you can stop me?”
“If I have to,” Vaelen answered, and for the first time, Ember saw it: the quiet resolve behind her cousin’s delicate frame. The porcelain had hardened into something else entirely.
The world had once more shifted, and she hadn’t been there to see it.
----------------------------------------
All she could do was blink, staring up at the darkening ceiling. The saloon had deepened into shadows while she lay there, her breath slow, her mind untethered, trying to piece together what had just happened. Evening had crept in like a thief, stealing the light while her thoughts lingered elsewhere.
“Naive and sheltered, huh?” she murmured, wincing as she pushed herself upright. Her entire left side throbbed, a dull ache radiating from her ribs down to her hip. The pain was a sobering thing, grounding her in the here and now, driving off the disbelief that had threatened to settle in.
She gritted her teeth. “Maybe I am…”
She stood, unsteady at first, the room swimming slightly as her head caught up with her body. Even without the shadows that stretched long and quiet, Ember knew by the absence of sound that time had slipped away from her. Hours, perhaps. The others had journeyed on, leaving nothing but her and the silence behind.
It was the kind of quiet that settled deep into the bones of the Third Dreakart Estate. No muffled conversations seeping through the walls, no footfalls on old floors, no gruff orders from coachmen loading luggage. Even the guards moved like ghosts during these lulls between the estate's rare visitors. The seasons of quiet had returned.
Emberlyth hated it.
The estate was too vast, too empty during these months. Only a skeleton crew of maids and the occasional guard roamed the halls, their presence a poor defense against the yawning silence. She felt it keenly in these moments, a smothering loneliness that pressed down from all sides.
With a quiet sound, as weary as it was pained, she sank back into her wingback chair, gingerly tucking her knees up to her chest. It wasn’t a ladylike posture—Lady Efrain would have clucked her tongue disapprovingly if she were here—but Ember didn’t care. Efrain wasn’t here. No one was. She needed the comfort more than she needed propriety.
Her gaze drifted toward the window, where rain traced lazy, meandering paths down the glass. “You’ll come back, won’t you, Vael?” she asked softly, her voice barely rising above the patter of rain. “You won’t vanish like the others?”
So many had gone without returning. Governess Abda, with her deep-belly laugh and endless tales of younger days. Guard Captain Jane, who had taught her the finer points of swordplay when no one was looking. Her favorite handmaids, Sarah and Mariah, whose light chatter once filled the corners of this house with life. All gone, one by one, slipping away into the world beyond the estate's walls.
And now? Now even Mister Olsen and Lady Efrain seemed on the verge of joining that long list of people who had disappeared from her life.
The thought was a knife twisting in her chest. Ember hugged her knees tighter, her breath hitching as she buried her face in her arms. She fought the tears, but the fight was futile. They came anyway, hot and stinging, spilling down her cheeks as she rocked gently in the quiet of the empty hall.
In that moment, she felt like the girl she’d been a decade ago. Eight years old, sitting on the cold floor of her room, hearing the words that shattered her world echo between these walls: Your father won’t be coming back.
She had felt helpless then, lost and small in the vastness of her grief. She felt the same now, trapped in a house that had grown too large, too empty, and far too silent.