Page 51 of At the Mercy of Midnight
Another pair disengaged from the darkness, walking forwards to stand before Amelia and Silas.
The final pair, the inseparable lovers, Lyana and Bane were claimed as an accident, bonded through a weather anomaly while traversing the Rift together. They were the closest, the pair who might bring balance to the magic. They discovered an ancient Gemino ritual requiring great sacrifice that would appease the Monoliths. With their bond forged by an accident, so too their fate was sealed by yet another. Their bond, their love, disrupted the ritual and so they failed. The pair were seized, the forgotten realm taking them for its own.
One of the figures stepped forwards, unmistakably female with flowing hair of pure darkness. She, Lyana, moved with a slow grace to them, face nothing but midnight, eyes hollow and empty, limbs thin and emaciated. She stopped before them, and Silas felt Amelia’s hand grasping his so tightly that it was cutting off circulation.
Lyana’s withered hand reached out, fingers trembling as though the movement cost her terribly.
Don’t make our mistakes. The weight and sacrifice we could not bear now rests on your shoulders. Succeed where we failed. Amelia…
The fingers stretched forwards, reaching for the side of Amelia’s face. The tip of Lyana’s finger just brushed her cheek before Amelia gasped, wrenching her hand free from Silas’. He reared back, reality slamming in, the lingering screams of the vanishing souls echoing in his ears.
The darkness had disappeared, and they were back in the small, rickety shop. Fabian breathed heavily across the table.
Amelia sat, pale and trembling.
Silas swallowed his unease and looked to Fabian. The scroll had burned down, its ash spread across wood and wax.
Amelia stood abruptly. “I…we should go.”
Silas stood slowly as she snatched up her gloves before hurrying for the door, pulling it open to a blast of cold air, the door screeching shut behind her.
He turned back to Fabian. “There’s no way to break the bond, is there?”
Fabian’s smile was odd, making Silas’ shoulders tense. “History proves not, but history can be made today, yes?”
He hesitated before asking, “did you see what we saw in there?”
Fabian tilted his head. “Like calls to like,” he said in his strange voice. “I have no connection to the previous bonded as you do.”
“So…no?” he clarified.
Fabian merely smiled.
Silas straightened the collar of his cloak, moving for the door.
“Silas Finley,” Fabian called. He paused and turned back. “The bond is not forced, nor farcical. Amelia Winslow fights her trauma, but the bond—the true bond, not the magical one—will win the battle.”
His hand curled around the cold door handle, brain shorting at Fabian’s words. Choosing not to respond, Silas pushed open the door, welcoming the gust of wintry air as he stepped out after Amelia.
FOURTEEN
Amelia walked ahead, their trek to the Finley estate accompanied by a heavy silence. He had planned for a return to the lab but didn’t redirect Amelia as he followed the stiff set of her shoulders. Her resolute footfalls, boots crunching on the icy stones, held no room for argument.
She said nothing when greeted by the staff, or as they ascended the spiral staircase to the upper floors.
Reaching their rooms, Amelia pushed open her doors.
Silas stood in the hallway, studying her to interpret her mood or needs. Amelia gave the answer.
She faced him at the threshold, expression dull and quiet, even as a pain behind her eyes screamed loudly. Her dark eyes stuttered before looking away, the doors shutting in his face.
He stared at the closed doors before walking away. A debrief might have been useful. He was still piecing together what he had seen, but if Amelia wasn’t ready to discuss it, he wouldn’t push the matter.
Silas spent the rest of the day rifling through the study in the western wing. He had entered apprehensively, not having stepped into the room since his father died. The study was soaked with memory, the walls having absorbed the long days spent with his father, bonding over their shared intellectual pursuits.
With the ghost of his father haunting his every move, Silas rifled through years of research and journals, seeking any mention on pair bonding. Hours later, Silas sat in a leather chair, spent, and frustrated, books and parchment strewn haphazardly across the heavy wooden desk. An ache lay on his chest, like a heavy weight had been dropped there. He rubbed absently at the spot like he could wipe it away, trying to ignore the sensation as he pressed on with his search.
He found nothing.
