Page 83 of At the Mercy of Midnight
Amelia frowned at her own fingers, flexing them before shaking them out like she still felt the unnatural chill. “Yeah.”
“Orion,” Silas said hoarsely. “My father…these were his.”
Amelia didn’t reply.
His heart already pounded as he set the battered journal down on the table, fingers trembling. He opened it, and he was hit by a wave of nostalgia at the familiar lettering inside. He swallowed, but forced his gaze to the cramped, untidy writing on the pages.
The first few entries were normal, coherent. They were field notes, precise observations about the Rift’s shifts, theoriesabout the Monoliths not being opposites, but halves. A connected system, yearning for unity.
Orion spoke of a ‘thread-line’, a metaphysical tether that could be reconnected, centred somewhere in the Ruins of Veilthorne.
Amelia pointed to a section, breath unsteady as she read aloud. “If re-joined, it may reset the world's magic,” she said, casting him an excited glance before continuing. “No more blighted storms. No more unravelling spells. Balance.”
Silas’ pulse quickened.
This was monumental.
If it was real.
As they excitedly flipped the pages, the journal began to change. It was gradual at first. Sentences began to twist halfway through. Words were repeated. Diagrams that started out crisp devolved into near-meaningless spirals. Margins crowded with frantic notes.
The Rift speaks…the Rift sings…can't sleep…Veilthorne is watching me…
The centre is hunger…the centre is hope…
I see the lines burning across the world…I see her in the dark…
His hands tightened on the leather.
Silas leaned closer, their shoulders brushing. “He was losing himself,” he said quietly. “The Rift…it was eating away at him.”
“He was there too long,” Amelia whispered. “It's not meant for prolonged exposure. Look…he references trying to use midnight magic to find a way into Veilthorne. He…passed through the wards at precisely midnight.” She let out a stunned breath, before whispering. “Do you think that broke the wards?”
“Perhaps,” Silas said bitterly, “and perhaps it cost him.”
There were no final entries, no explanations of his disappearance. Only an abrupt stop. A stain on the last page, dark and stiff like old blood.
They stood in heavy silence.
“How did Aurora even find this?” Amelia queried softly. “How did it come back from the Rift, when your father didn’t?”
He swallowed, puzzling over the query. All he could do was shrug, despising how he had so few answers to so many things.
Amelia shifted, peeking at the second book covered in glyphs. Silas’ gaze shifted to it, too.
It gleamed faintly, glyphs curling in on themselves like vines of molten ink. It didn’t justlooksealed, itfeltsealed, like a heartbeat thrumming steadily behind impenetrable stone.
Compelled, he reached out again. As his fingertips brushed it, a sharp crack of magic lashed at his hand. He yanked back with a soft curse.
Amelia let out a sigh. “Must you touch everything without care?”
He sent her a look. She rolled her eyes before looking back to the sealed journal.
“Protective seal,” she muttered, shaking her fingers. “Probably a complex one.”
“Why would my father lock it?” Silas said, voice tight with suspicion. “Unless what’s inside is extremely dangerous. Or extremely valuable.”
“Or both,” Amelia said grimly.
