Instead of guiding me back into the familiar halls of the castle, Malphas takes me further down the hall. When I walked this way to reach Malphas earlier, I could have sworn there was no passage beyond the dark wood door where I had been summoned. Yet now, as he leads me onward, another corridor unfurls before us, narrow and steeped in shadow.

I frown, glancing over my shoulder as if the stones might rearrange themselves the moment I look away. Had this place been cloaked from me before, hidden by whatever ancient magic lingers in this castle? How many other halls have slipped past my sight, how many secrets has this place tucked away, waiting until Malphas deems me worthy, or foolish enough, to find them?

I wonder about the castle's many rooms, about what lies behind the countless locked doors I have passed. I wonder about his chambers. I wonder about his bed.

Heat creeps up my neck at the thought, and I quickly wrench my mind away, furious at myself for the direction of it.

Malphas walks ahead, silent, as if he knows what paths my mind is traveling and chooses not to comment. His long coat trails behind him like smoke, brushing the stones with every measured step.

He stops before a door unlike the others. This one bears no handle, no keyhole, no marking save for the faint shimmer of symbols burned into the wood, too ancient for me to read.

I glance at him, uncertain. "How is it meant to be opened?"

"This is the hall of memories," he says, his voice low enough that I must lean closer to catch it. "A library of sorts. It holds the records of past bargains. Past failures."

I press my hand against my skirts, steadying myself. "And you would let me see it?"

He looks down at me, his gaze sharp and unreadable. "I will not stop you. But you should know, Edrea, knowledge here does not come freely. It never has."

A small shiver curls down my spine, though whether from fear or anticipation, I cannot say.

Malphas steps closer, and I do not move away. I should. I know I should. But my feet refuse to obey.

He reaches past me to press his palm flat against the sealed door. His arm brushes mine, the contact brief but searing all the same.

The warmth of him is startling, given how cold he has always seemed. I feel the press of muscle beneath his coat, the strength he holds back with so little effort.

I wonder if he notices how I freeze.

I wonder if he feels the shift in the air between us, the sharp, breathless thing that sparks where our bodies nearly meet.

If he does, he gives no sign of it. His focus remains on the door, though his mouth curves slightly, as if he enjoys how easily my composure crumbles.

The symbols flare faintly beneath his touch, and with a low groan, the door opens inward.

He steps back, allowing me to see inside.

"Only those of noble blood tied to this castle may open the records," he says, his voice quieter now, almost a whisper. "I am the last of my line. The only one who remains."

There is a heaviness to the words, a sorrow tucked away behind the certainty.

I glance into the darkness beyond the doorway, the air thick with the scent of old paper, of wax and dust and things better left forgotten.

A part of me yearns to step back, to retreat from whatever truths wait for me within that chamber.

But a larger part—fierce, stubborn, starved for answers—pulls me forward.

I cross the threshold without looking back.

And Malphas, silent as ever, follows.

Shelves loom high above, so tall they vanish into the gloom overhead. Rows upon rows of scrolls, crumbling tomes, and cracked tablets are packed together in no particular order, as if the memories themselves resist being neatly arranged. The scent here is heavy, earthy, a mixture of parchment, stone, and something faintly metallic, like old blood.

Malphas lingers by the doorway, his presence still and watchful. He does not guide me. He does not speak. I think he is curious to see what I will reach for, what will call to me.

I drift between the shelves, my skirts whispering against the cold stone floor. Every few steps, I catch glimpses of strange objects tucked away. A locket blackened with age. A cracked mirror reflecting nothing at all. A sword hilt with no blade. Each item seems steeped in old sorrow, as if the bargains they witnessed never ended well.

A whisper curls at the edge of my hearing. I stop, turning toward the sound, but the hall remains still. No breeze stirs these endless rows, no servants move through the stacks. Only silence presses in around me, patient and unyielding.

My gaze falls to an alcove tucked deep between two sagging shelves. Unlike the others, it holds no books, no relics, only a single slab of stone, propped upright as if abandoned. Dust coats its surface, but the carvings etched into it are clear and sharp beneath the grime.

I step closer, heart hammering an uneven rhythm against my ribs. The symbols are not in some dead tongue. They are in the common script, though their meaning is far less simple.

By hand unbound and heart unfound,
She binds herself in borrowed crown.
In the hour the river forgets her name,
She will own the night—or be devoured.

I frown, reading it again, slower this time. It feels like a riddle left for me, though there is no name etched into the stone. Only a title scratched near the bottom, worn but still legible: The Bride of Shadow.

The words prickle against my skin, unwelcome and familiar all at once. My fingers hover above the slab, aching to touch, to trace the deep cuts, but something warns me against it. If the castle truly breathes with magic, then even the simplest touch might awaken something I am not yet ready to face.

Still, I cannot walk away from this. Not now.

I glance back toward the hall's entrance. Malphas remains there, his dark figure half-shrouded by shadow. Watching. Waiting. I do not know if he sees what I have found. I do not ask.

Working quickly, I tear a blank sheet from a broken ledger abandoned nearby. With the side of a bit of coal, I press the paper to the stone and rub carefully, transferring the riddle onto it. My hands tremble slightly, though whether from excitement or dread, I cannot say.

When the parchment is blackened with the impression, I fold it into the hidden pocket sewn into the lining of my skirts. Only then do I allow myself a breath.

The slab stands silent once more, offering no answers, no guidance. Only questions wrapped in riddles.

Straightening, I wipe the dust from my hands and turn away. I move slowly, as if the stone might call me back if I show any sign of haste. Malphas says nothing as I approach, his gaze steady, his expression unreadable.

For a moment, I think he might stop me, might demand to know what I carry hidden against my side.

He does not.

Instead, he simply inclines his head, a silent invitation to leave the Hall of Memories behind.

I step out first, my pulse a drumbeat in my ears. Malphas follows, the door groaning closed behind us, the ancient magic sealing it once more.

We say nothing as we retrace our steps through the castle, but I feel the weight of the hidden parchment against my hip. I feel the riddle seeping into my thoughts, burrowing deep.

By the time I reach my chambers, I know sleep will not find me tonight.

I have a mystery to solve. And whatever truths lie at the end of it, I will find them.

Even if it costs me everything.

***

The candle sputters low in its holder, casting long, restless shadows across the small table by my bed. I sit hunched over it, the stolen parchment spread before me, the edges curling slightly from the heat. I have read the riddle a dozen times, maybe more, and each reading leaves me with more questions than answers.

By hand unbound and heart unfound,
She binds herself in borrowed crown.
In the hour the river forgets her name,
She will own the night—or be devoured.

I trace the words with the tip of my finger, slow and deliberate, as if repetition might strip away their mystery. It doesn't. Every line feels laden with meaning I am too blind to see.

Hand unbound. Heart unfound. I suppose that could be me. I am no one's pawn now, but I am not free either. And my heart... my heart is little more than a battlefield.

Borrowed crown. That catches at something deep inside me. I think of the throne Malphas led me to at the Luncheon, the seat beside his, the feeling of being placed there not by my own merit but by his will alone. A title given, not earned. A false queen.

I press my palms against my eyes, trying to will the ache away. The castle is full of crowns that mean nothing, of roles forced upon the unwilling. Maybe this riddle speaks not to what I am, but to what I must become.

The river. The River of the Forgotten. The winding sluggishly beneath the bridge near the castle's edge, its surface swallowing every bit of light that touched it. If the river forgets my name... what then?

The words gnaw at me, an itch beneath my skin. Own the night—or be devoured.

A choice. Always a choice. And yet it feels more like a trap dressed in poetry.

The candle burns lower, the room growing colder with every passing moment. Still, I do not move from my place. I cannot.

I will find the meaning behind this. I will find the cracks in this cursed bargain. If the answers are buried within riddles, then so be it.

I was raised to survive courtly games, to read between the lines of false smiles and poisoned promises. Whatever this is, it will not defeat me.