Page 98 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
Each world has one Soul Stone, and the Memorium is from her world, Folkara. It’s been missing for ages—not public information, but something I’ve learned through Calista’s complaining. It’s said to have powers of glamour, elemental magic, and, more importantly,memories.
It can take, or it can give.
It can shatter time.
And the Royals of Folkara want it back desperately.
“Think about it,” I say quickly, my mind racing. “How long has the Memorium been missing?”
“Centuries.” Her breath trembles, and mine mirrors hers. “Why would Desdemona have it?”
“To fracture time?” I suggest.
Desdemona isn’t just tied to the prophecy.
She could be its catalyst.
Calista huffs, her determination breaking through the fear. “Then we take her necklace,” she decides. “Andifit’s the Memorium, I take it home.”
Hastily, I agree.
?
Telling Lucian about the prophecy could help. He’s the closest to Desdemona. He’s publicly shunned her. He must know something more.
But I won’t put Azaire in that kind of trouble—not when the end could be so near.
I won’t undo the reason I stole his emotions.
Going to Folkara is a long shot—but I will go. Because, in a way without words, I promised Azaire I would. I promised to carry his belief when I stole a fraction of it.
But before I go to Folkara, I go to the last place that might still have some answers.
I go home.
This time, when I pass by the meadow where Ma was killed, I don’t feel it. I feel everything else.
I feel Desdemona.
Like she’s under my skin, unraveling me, digging into my core. I know it’s her. Or, at the very least, it’s her prophecy pressing against me, begging to be seen.
To be answered.
Today, it’s unlikely I’ll get those answers. Instead, I’m pressing on for the Weapon. This time, completely alone. I won’t share what I find with Azaire, and Lucian hardly seems to care these days.
That’s fine. Alone is what I know. It’s how I’ve always survived. I’ve carried every discovery we’ve made so far, like boulders across a mountain. I’ll keep doing so.
I have to.
I knock on the open door to my old home, calling inside, “Pa?”
He appears, smiling, though his weariness betrays him. “Wendy.”
He opens the door wider, inviting me inside, but the tension between us lingers. He still carries the residue of our last meeting, and so do I.
What a shame. What afreeingshame.
There is no reason to tread carefully.
