Page 16 of Threads Of Madly Whispers

“Thanks,” I mutter, though the word feels hollow. The sense of being watched clings to me, a prickling unease that refuses to fade, even now, far from that cursed clearing.

The cab arrives quicker than expected, headlights cutting through the dark, and we climb in without a word. The ride back is silent, but the images refuse to leave me—the fire, the chanting, the man’s face. Those piercing blue eyes. I can’t shake the feeling that this is only the beginning, the first thread of a blood-soaked tapestry unraveling in our hands.

Chapter 9

Thorn

Of Bones and Ballet

She’s late

Time, its essence a harrowing weight, an anchor that pulls at the soul. It carries with it a violence so quiet, yet so absolute, that even the strongest knees tremble at its inevitability. A force both omnipotent and omniscient, it speaks the language of both reverence and ruin. It bears the mark of ages past, where every tick of its invisible hands calls forth destruction in the guise of renewal.

It reminds me, again and again, of Chronos, the harbinger of time. The father of all things, whose grasp over existence is so firm it quivers with its own crushing beauty. Once a man, now but a myth, now a shadow. He is the embodiment of the paradox that time gives life, yet it is only death that gives time its shape. A tale told in murmurs, where men become gods and gods become echoes, but the truth lingers in the spaces between.

In death, there is time, a fleetingsecond etched upon the gravestones of the living, where moments of agony stretch on for eternity. And in time, there is life, but not without its price. The reckoning that looms at the edges of existence is inevitable, etched upon the foreheads of those who dared forget its decree.

Those who crossed time’s sanctity were marked by a pyretic alloy, scorching their flesh as it carved its reprimand into their souls. It burned with the heat of retribution, a molten reminder of their transgression. The flames did not merely cauterize, they consumed, taking life and soul, fusing them into one in a fire that left only ashes behind.

Some say it is myth, a tale spun from the idle tongues of those who cannot comprehend its force. But to me, it is a warning. A quiet breath before the storm, a truth laced in smoke and shadow. It is not a story of gods and men—it is a lesson in consequence, carved into the marrow of existence, a consequence that will always be paid in full.

She’s late

The glass wall stands as a silent sentinel, dividing the room in two, its cold surface a barrier between me and her. But, as always, it is never enough to truly obscure what is inevitable, her presence. It wanders, heavy in the air, palpable even before she crosses into view. A ghostly prelude waiting for the moment she steps into the light, when the chaos of her will finally capture my carefully crafted world, once more.

Her beauty, like an unholy muse, claws at my thoughts. Her eyes, mismatched and burning with a fire that has no name, pull me into an abyss I have no desire to escape. And her scent, that intoxicating, forbidden perfume, wraps around me, burying me beneath something far darker than mere desire.

But for now, she remains a shadow, a phantom in theedges of my mind, not yet manifest, yet so close it makes my skin crawl with anticipation.

Within these walls, I remain unseen—shadowed in silence while Oscar tends to the affairs of our family’s business. His meticulous nature, honed by years in the military, kept the gears of my legacy grinding without a hitch. He was the steady hand, the unwavering pillar upon which I could lean, free to lose myself in the matters that truly consumed me. He was my fidus Achates—my trusted ally—handling the mundane while I drifted, lost in darker, more dangerous pursuits.Diamonds.

Yet, I have made a fatal slip. A conscious, deliberate severing of my tether to what once mattered. Priorities have blurred, melting into murky pools of uncertainty, and I am left chasing her. No longer diamonds or power, buther—my very ruin.

The thought sickens me, a nauseating twist of disgust curling in the pit of my stomach. But when something so violently consuming burns through your veins, it is not a matter of willpower or restraint. No, you embrace the ashes it leaves behind. You savor them as they settle, cold and heavy, for in them lies a dark pleasure—a pleasure I can no longer deny.

She’s late

The other students begin assembling to the instructions of their madam as the time ticks further, with her tardiness spinning out. Every year, prospects come to Haven Ballet to find their next jewel. Women and men they can hook and decrypt to their accord. Ballerinas that will dance to the bone for them. Ballet is crystals to the venal, while it’s bane to the dancers. People love to watch it, to pay for it, to applaud it and to fracture it apart.

Buried behind money and gemstones are the rapaciouswilling to pay millions to keep a gilded ballerina. Not many know of these dealings and not many live to spoil the daunting revelation. These prospects are not just for magnum opuses but for avaricious men and women.

Nothing but a corralled flair makes for a trophy to hold dear, however what l find maliciously clowning is how these girls approve of these conundrums. How their families sell them to the highest bidder, just for the multitude of power and wealth it brings.

From an outsider’s gaze, you might mistake it for trafficking dressed in sequins and shimmer — but it’s not. Some of these girls are paraded, their talents displayed like rare jewels for the world to marvel at. Others, though, offer their gifts behind closed doors, to audiences cloaked in secrecy and gloom. None are dragged into this life against their will– not in the way you’d expect. Some plead for a chance to shine, some are pushed by the cruel hands of their own blood, and some… some simply vanish into the darkness, leaving the glitter behind.

It’s all choices. I simply capitalize from their avaricious decisions.

I’ve seen it all, some might say. At least I thought I had until I laid eyes on her.

On my property, she marauded me, yet I felt welcomed. Her insolence me made me feel venerated. She challenged me, yet I felt intrigued. She’s a menace, a daring one at that, yet I felt cajoled.

It’s an infatuation, I concluded, an amalgam of desires and thirst. It’s a brew that’s plaguing my mind and ability to act accordingly.

It’s an itch, maybe even an ache that tails sleep away and thoughts of anything but her.

She’s aggravating my days and hounding my nightswithout so much as knowing. Ever since the first night her existence became glaring, my attention hasn’t stopped seeking her. I’m always there, around her, following her and capturing moments that aren’t mine to hold hostage. She acknowledges me when her eyes go wandering in search of what’s making the goosebumps bubble on her flesh.

She knows I’m there, yet she keeps me. It’s the small smile that always threatens to spill when she feels my eyes on her. It’s the way a bright crimson blush lights her face or the way she hums a melody for my ears to hear.

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