Page 71 of The Ruthless Rivalry

I close my eyes for a second, breathing in the scents of the plants around me. The earthy, rich smell of soil, the fresh green of new growth.This is what matters now.The plants, the peace. That other thing? Whatever it was, it can wait.

I move deeper into the greenhouse, pulling my attention away from the sundial and its mysteries. A part of me wonders if it’s even worth thinking about right now. But then again, if I had something like my old microscope—like the one I used back at my old school—maybe I’d be able to observe these plants with more clarity. Maybe I could study their growth patterns or hear the subtle rhythms of life within their stems. That was one of the few things that ever truly fascinated me at that place—the biology of plants, their hidden lives that were just as complexand intricate as anything else. But here? All I’ve got are my hands. Not quite the same.

Still, I guess it’s enough for now.

I close my eyes again, letting the quiet of the greenhouse fill me, the whisper of the leaves and the subtle shift of light guiding me deeper into the room.

For a while, I lose myself to the plants. Their calm becomes my calm.

I stop for a moment, a flicker of realization crossing my mind. This is exactly what I need. Not just the plants, not just the peace, but the stillness. The quiet. The absence of everything that’s been gnawing at me. Maybe I’m not just running from the noise. Maybe I’m runningtowardsomething.

Hours slip by unnoticed as I drift between the aisles of plants, letting the calm of the greenhouse consume me. My fingers brush against leaves, tracing the veins of ferns and the smooth, waxy surfaces of succulents. The quiet is comforting—perfect,even. But every time I glance at the sundial, that nagging feeling returns. The one I can’t shake, no matter how hard I try to ignore it.

The sun’s position in the sky has shifted, the light now casting long, soft shadows that stretch across the floor. The air in the greenhouse has grown cooler, but I’m still drawn to the center of the room.

Just one touch,I tell myself.Just to see. Nothing more.

I walk toward it. Each step feels heavier, like the dial itself is pulling me in, calling me to do something I can’t walk away from.

I stop in front of it, staring down at the polished surface of the dial. The sharp pointer glints under the fading light, almost daring me to touch it. My fingers itch to run across it, to feel the cool surface once more, to test the boundaries between curiosity and madness.

I can feel my heartbeat picking up.This is ridiculous,I think. But I can’t help it. The question lingers in the back of my mind—what would happen if I did it again? If I just let my blood spill like it did last time?

With a slow, deliberate motion, I extend my hand, hovering over the dial. The air around it feels colder, like something waiting to happen.

I draw my finger across the sharp edge.

A hiss escapes my lips as the tip of my finger slices open, the pain sharp and immediate. The blood wells up quickly, hot and red, trickling down and over my skin. I watch, transfixed, as it circles the dial. The room feels suddenly heavier, the silence broken only by the faint sound of my breath.

And then, just like before, the mechanism shifts. The air thickens. The stone beneath me groans as the ground trembles slightly, sending a jolt of anticipation through me. The sundial shudders with a low, echoing creak, and before I know it, the crisp gloom of the hidden stairs reveals itself once again.

The opening widens, a dark, narrow staircase leading downward into the unknown. My pulse quickens, the rush of adrenaline drowning out everything else. I can feel my breath coming faster, my finger still slick with blood as it hovers above the opening. The lure of what lies below is too strong to resist.

I could turn away. I could leave right now.

But the temptation, the pull of whatever’s down there, is stronger than my better judgment.

I step forward, my feet moving before I can talk myself out of it, and the darkness below swallows me whole.

The staircase is narrow and winding, the stone steps cold beneath my feet as I descend deeper. The air grows cooler with each step, the musty scent of old stone filling my lungs. I can barely see anything, the faint flicker of candlelight at the bottom of the stairs casting warped shadows against the walls. Thefurther down I go, the more oppressive the silence becomes—almost suffocating, like I’m stepping into a forgotten part of this place.

I pause. Candlelight? That doesn’t make sense. Who lit them?

Someone must’ve been down here recently. Maybe still is.

I hesitate on the steps, straining to listen. Nothing—no footsteps, no voices, not even the creak of movement. Just the low, steady flicker of light against stone.

My pulse picks up. I shift my footing, careful not to make a sound, and take the last few steps slower, quieter. If someone’s down here, I don’t want to announce myself.

When I finally reach the bottom, my breath catches in my throat.

I step into a large, circular room, the walls lined with shelves that stretch from floor to ceiling, crammed with books. The golden glow of the candles around the room barely breaks the darkness, leaving the space bathed in a dull, flickering light.

The candles are oddly fresh, too. No dripping wax. No smell of smoke.

In the center, a brass eagle statue stands proud on a pedestal—its wings outstretched, as though ready to take flight. The statue is centered, surrounded by a circular table, its surface cluttered with papers and old, leather-bound volumes.

The air feels dense here, unlike above. This space, it’s like the room is holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. I approach the shelves, drawn to them as if I’ve been here before, though I know I haven’t.

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