Chapter 32: Chains of Regret
The abandoned greenhouse had become their makeshift infirmary. Moonlight filtered through the cracked glass panels, painting the wounded in shades of blue and silver. Selene lay motionless on a bed of moss Rowan had coaxed from the stone floor, her breathing shallow but steady. The corruption had receded to a web of black veins encircling her left eye—a sinister halo that pulsed faintly with every heartbeat.
Evan paced the length of the greenhouse, his boots crushing dried herbs underfoot. The scent of lavender and witch hazel did little to mask the underlying stench of burnt flesh—his own. The skin around his oathbond scar had blackened during the ritual chamber confrontation, the mark now resembling a lightning-struck tree rather than the elegant sigil it once was. Every movement sent jolts of pain radiating through his chest, but the physical discomfort was nothing compared to the acid drip of guilt eating through his insides.
"You're going to wear a trench in the stone," Aria observed from her perch on an overturned watering can. Her knives were out, the blades catching the moonlight as she cleaned them with methodical precision. "Which would be impressive, considering this is solid bedrock."
Evan didn't answer. His gaze kept returning to Selene's still form, to the slow rise and fall of her chest. The memory of her scream as Mira's corruption took root played on a loop in his mind.
A hand touched his shoulder. He turned to find Isolde holding out a steaming mug. "Drink," she ordered. "Your magic is still fluctuating, and we can't have you passing out mid-conversation."
The tea smelled of bitter roots and something faintly metallic. Evan took a cautious sip and nearly gagged. "What the hell is this?"
"Ground magebone and dreamwort." Isolde adjusted her cracked glasses. The silver flecks in her eyes had spread since the dreamwalk, giving her an eerie, otherworldly appearance. "It'll stabilize your connection to the oathbond." She hesitated, then added quietly, "And help with the guilt."
Evan's grip tightened on the mug. "I don't need—"
"Please." Isolde's voice was sharp as a scalpel. "I can see it on you, Evan. The self-recrimination is practically leaking from your pores." She nodded toward Selene. "She made her choice. Just like you made yours. Neither of you could have known Mira was baiting the trap."
The words rang hollow. Evan set the mug aside untouched. "Where's Rowan?"
"Scouting the eastern corridors." Aria flipped a knife idly. "Seems Caine's called an emergency faculty meeting. Whole place is crawling with professors looking for someone to blame." She grinned, all teeth. "Good thing we left Mira's body for them to find."
A rustle from the moss bed cut through the conversation. Selene's fingers twitched, her brow furrowing as if caught in a nightmare. The black veins around her eye darkened momentarily before receding again.
Evan was at her side in an instant, his injured arm protesting the sudden movement. He reached for her hand, then hesitated. "Is she—"
"Dreaming," Isolde confirmed. She crouched beside them, her fingers hovering over Selene's forehead without touching. "The corruption has her trapped in some kind of loop. If I had to guess, Mira anchored it to a memory."
Evan's jaw clenched. "Can you reach her?"
"Not without risking the corruption spreading to me." Isolde sat back on her heels. "But you could."
The unspoken implication hung heavy in the air. The oathbond.
Aria whistled low. "That's a terrible idea."
"Got a better one?" Isolde shot back.
Evan didn't wait for the argument to continue. He took Selene's hand in his and focused on the silver thread connecting them. The moment his magic brushed against the bond, the world dissolved.
Evan stood in a sunlit courtyard that hadn't existed in decades. The academy stones were pristine, the windows unbroken. Laughter echoed from open doorways—real laughter, not the hollow mockery that haunted the halls now.
A young girl with silver braids crouched near a flowering bush, her small hands carefully arranging stones in a spiral pattern. She couldn't have been more than six years old.
"Selene?" Evan approached cautiously.
The girl looked up, and Evan's breath caught. Her eyes were normal—no silver glow, no corruption. Just the clear gray of a summer storm.
"You're not supposed to be here," she said matter-of-factly. "This is my memory."
Before Evan could respond, the scene rippled like disturbed water. The sunlight dimmed; the laughter turned to screams. Little Selene scrambled to her feet as shadows poured from the academy windows, thick as ink.
"It always happens this way," she whispered, clutching Evan's sleeve. "I try to stop it, but I can't."
The shadows coalesced into humanoid shapes—tall figures with elongated limbs and featureless faces. They moved toward the courtyard with predatory grace.
Evan stepped in front of the child, his dagger appearing in his hand as if summoned by thought alone. "This time will be different."
The first shadow reached for them. Evan slashed with the dagger, and the creature shrieked—a sound that shook the memory itself. The blade left trails of silver light in its wake, the oathbond's power cutting through the darkness like a hot knife through butter.
More shadows converged. Evan fought with a desperation he'd never known, each strike fueled by raw protective instinct. The child Selene clung to his coat, her small fingers trembling.
One of the shadows slipped past his guard. Its cold fingers brushed Selene's arm—
And the memory shattered.
Evan gasped as reality snapped back into place. The greenhouse. The others staring at him. Selene's hand clutching his with bone-crushing force.
Her eyes flew open—both silver again, though the left remained threaded with black. "Evan." His name was a prayer on her lips.
Then she was in his arms, her breath hot against his neck, her fingers digging into his back hard enough to leave bruises. Evan held her just as tightly, the oathbond singing between them.
Isolde cleared her throat. "As touching as this is, we have bigger problems." She held up the stolen spellbook, its pages now visible in the moonlight. "Mira wasn't working alone. And her master isn't Caine."
The illustration on the open page made Evan's blood run cold. A detailed sketch of the academy's foundation stones, each marked with a different rune. At the center, where the ley lines converged, crouched a monstrous shape—part human, part shadow, its maw stretched wide to consume the magic flowing toward it.
Scrawled beneath in elegant script: The Vessel Awakens.
And beside it, a single name.
Lucian Crowhurst.