Chapter 11

Shelram Forest, the Kingdom of Wuthia, 1126

Mabel Laenas (Rila Faerson)

As we continued onward through the forest, I noticed the sudden stillness around us. Birds that had chattered overhead all morning vanished into silence, and the air grew heavy, as though the forest itself held its breath. I looked up through the canopy—dark clouds massed, rolling fast from the west, their bellies swollen with rain.

“Storm,” I murmured.

Richard glanced skyward. “Seems the weather wants to quicken our pace. Come on, sister, unless you wish to ride soaked to the bone.”

We urged the horses faster, the forest path narrowing until branches clawed at my cloak. The first thunder broke above us—deep, rolling, like the voice of some god displeased. Lightning forked through the clouds, and the air smelled sharp, metallic. My heart quickened, though I could not tell if it was fear of the storm ... or the darker pulse that always lingered in me, pressing, whispering, clawing at the edges of my will.

Rain came suddenly and harsh, blinding sheets that soaked us through. Richard swore, a piece of his dreadlock hair plastered to his brow. “Shelter—there!” He pointed toward a rock rise, half-swallowed by the forest.

We dismounted, leading the horses with hurried steps as the downpour turned the earth to mud. At the rock’s base yawned a shallow cave, narrow but deep enough to hide us from the rain.

Once inside, the world dulled to the roar of water outside and the flicker of shadows across stone. Richard tied the horses near the entrance, then struck flint to steel, coaxing a flame from damp kindling. The fire sputtered, hissed, then caught, painting the walls in trembling light.

I pulled my cloak tighter, shivering though the cold was not entirely from the storm. Something about the air in this place was wrong. It carried the weight of age, things long buried.

“Richard,” I whispered, running my hand along the stone. “This isn’t just a cave.”

The wall beneath my fingers bore carvings—worn, half-vanished, but unmistakably wrought by hands long gone. Spirals, runes, shapes I did not know but felt pressing against my thoughts like voices trying to break through.

Richard’s firelight swept deeper into the hollow, revealing what I had already feared. The cave’s shadows sloped downward, into a passage carved with old, crumbling pillars. A ruin, hidden beneath the forest floor.

My brother came to stand beside me, his charm of amber and bone glinting faintly in the firelight. For once, his smile was gone, replaced with that seriousness he so rarely showed.

“Seems fate has given us more than shelter,” he said softly.

The storm raged outside, but I stayed close to the entrance, unwilling to give the cave more ground than it had already taken. Richard crouched near the markings, running his fingers across them as though trying to tease out meaning.

“We should wait until the storm passes,” I said firmly. “And then move on. The mountains lie north, not beneath the earth.”

He glanced back at me, amber charm glinting at his throat, water still dripping from his hair. “You’re not curious?”

“I am cautious.”

A silence fell between us, broken only by the storm’s roar. My brother straightened, gave a shrug, and leaned against the wall with that infuriating ease of his. I glanced at the entrance of the ruins, a little curiosity sparking in my mind. Yet beneath it, I felt something off about the ruin; the silent darkness showed nothing – no movement, no flicker of light, just absolute darkness.

The cave groaned softly, as if the stone itself answered.

I shivered and pulled my cloak tighter around me as I looked out of the cave into the pouring rain.

The storm showed no mercy. Sheets of rain fell beyond the cave’s mouth, and the world outside turned to silver haze and violent wind. I stood near the entrance, cloak wrapped around me, staring into the tempest as though I might read omens in its fury.

My thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Solomon and Bridget back at the manor. Were they safe? Was the darkness gnawing at them with the same persistence it gnawed at me?

The hunger was worse when I was still—when there was nothing to do but feel it press against my skin, coil in my chest. My jaw tightened. We had to reach the Golden Mountains, or all four of us would be lost.

A crack of thunder split the air, so close it rattled the stone beneath my boots. I glanced back into the cave.

Richard was gone.

At first, I thought he had only stepped deeper into the shadows to ease himself of the rain or perhaps to find dry kindling. But as I called softly—”Richard?”—only silence answered.

My stomach turned cold.

The markings on the stone, the faint suggestion of a passage leading deeper—they stood out sharper now, as though the absence of my brother lent them new menace.

“Damn it, Richard,” I whispered, though the word trembled more with fear than anger. I knew him well. His curiosity can be as untamable as his charm, and even when the weight of the family curse pressed upon him, he sought distraction in danger as much as in women.

I pressed my palm flat against the damp wall, steadying myself. If he had gone into the ruins, he would not be alone—not truly. There was more that lay inside this place, things that couldn’t be seen by the naked eye. I could feel it stir, restless, eager, as though some ancient secret lay beneath the stone.

The rain roared harder, sealing us into the cave with its curtain of water. I gripped the hilt of my dagger, breath quickening.

“Richard...” I called again, louder this time, voice echoing faintly into the black mouth of the ruin.