Chapter 45 — The Unseen Weight
Vaelith sat quietly in the dim light of her chamber, the thick velvet curtains drawn tight against the restless night beyond. The room was almost empty—only the essentials remained: a low table cluttered with ink-stained parchment, a small brazier flickering faint embers, and a carved wooden chair worn smooth by years of waiting. The faint scent of burnt herbs lingered in the air, mingling with the subtle cold that seeped through the stone walls.
She had not left this room in days.
The hours since the vial was administered had folded into one another, slipping past like shadows that no longer obeyed the sun. Twelve days. The waiting was a slow and merciless thing.
Her thoughts churned restlessly, each one a coil tightening around her heart. Today was the day. The chamber would be unsealed. The Trial would either claim its chosen—or mark him as lost. Awake or dead.
Outside, the palace held its breath. The guards walked their silent rounds with sharpened eyes, servants whispered in the halls with nervous glances, but here, in this room, the world had become a cage of silence and shadow.
A soft knock at the door broke the stillness. Vaelith did not startle; the ritual had dulled her nerves into brittle calm.
The door opened, and the maid entered—an unassuming girl with downcast eyes, dressed plainly in worn linens. She carried a folded cloth bundle and a small cup of water.
Vaelith's eyes flicked to her, calm and unyielding.
"You come to check?" Vaelith's voice was quiet, almost indifferent.
The maid nodded once, expression unreadable. She did not speak—words were unnecessary here.
Vaelith reached for the spoon but paused, her fingers trembling just slightly.
The girl watched her, the faintest flicker of something—sympathy? Pity?—passing through her eyes before she bowed and turned to leave.
Vaelith's gaze followed the retreating figure, then settled back on the empty chair beside the brazier.
She did not call him by name. There was no name to call. He was just the slave, the tool she had bought, the means to an end.
The burden of that truth sat heavy on her chest, a weight she did not bother to hide.
She stood and moved to the window, the heavy curtains parting reluctantly to reveal the city beyond.
The capital was a sprawling mosaic of stone and flame—towers silhouetted against the smoky sky, lanterns flickering like fireflies caught in an endless night. Somewhere in the distance, the soft murmur of voices, the clatter of armor on cobblestone, the quiet pulse of plotting and power.
Twelve siblings, scattered across the city's heart, each weaving their threads in the great tapestry of ambition.
Vaelith's lips pressed into a thin line. She had seen the strength of her siblings—the Bound champions they wielded like weapons, the whispered legends of their Trials and their marks.
None of that was hers.
Her hands, ink-stained from the countless hours spent poring over forbidden texts and secret rituals, trembled now—not with fear, but with resolve.
She would not wait to be chosen. She had stolen her chance from the shadows.
Twelve days in the chamber. Twelve days without breath, without sight, without time.
Twelve days to break and be remade.
The vial was a poison and a promise.
Her fingers brushed the worn scroll she had studied so many times. The words etched themselves into her memory—names of rites that the Veil had never meant for mortal hands, formulas for severance and binding, for stealing what was not freely given.
A dangerous gamble.
The Trial was a crucible. It did not care for nobility or desire. It shattered the unprepared.
Yet here she was, playing with forces beyond her understanding.
A distant part of her wondered if the Veil would punish her. If fate had a way of balancing scales with cruelty.
But the thought was fleeting.
Her will was sharper than fear.
She folded the scroll and tucked it beneath her robe, the smell of ancient parchment mingling with the smoke from the brazier.
The maid had returned, standing silently by the door.
Vaelith glanced at her again.
"Will he wake?" the maid's voice was a whisper, barely more than a breath.
Vaelith did not answer immediately.
The question had no simple reply.
She knew the price of waking.
The Trial would not yield mercy.
It would demand everything.
Still, Vaelith nodded once.
"Yes. Soon."
The maid's eyes lingered on her for a moment longer before she bowed deeply and retreated into the shadows.
Vaelith remained by the window, staring into the night.
She thought of the throne, gleaming like a cold star beyond reach.
She thought of the siblings she would have to surpass, the blood that would stain her hands, the silence that awaited the fallen.
And of the boy, the slave, the vessel of her defiance.
He was a pawn, a gamble, a secret she carried beneath her breath.
If he survived… if he lived—
Then the game would change.
If not—
She would bury the memory and move forward.
Because in the palace, power did not wait for the willing.
It was seized.
And Vaelith was ready to take it.