Page 60 of Threads Of Madly Whispers

“Why not?” For a moment I think he won’t answer, but when he does, my heart jumps.

“I do not want to lose you, and the things written in there are not for your sweet soul.”

“I too want to feel safe with this exquisite horror that sleeps in you. Allow me to see you and I promise not to leave.”

He is vulnerable, like an open wound and gracious, I have fallen for this man right in front of me. Can he not see? I’m hopelessly devoted.

“A sea speaks honestly to those willing to die, Wild Rose, you won’t ever be without me.”

“And you, I.”

The words felt like vows, like an oath given in church.

Chapter 37

Thorn

Sculpting the Darkness

A shadowed unease breathes on the horizon, curling its talons into the twilight. The air itself feels suffocated, heavy with the unsung horrors and veiled schemes. A hunter stalks unseen, its presence gnawing at my marrow, promising of ruin with every step. This night wears the scent of blood and ash like a shroud, an ominous prelude that hums against my senses. I can almost taste the carnage yet to come, metallic and bitter, lingering on the cusp of inevitability.

Tonight, the Jewel’s dance promises beauty and grace, yet beneath its shimmering façade lurks a festering rot. In the shadows, Basilio and his rabid hounds prowl, their hunger palpable, their teeth bared for the hunt. His theatrics these past days—needless, grotesque—were warnings painted in crimson. A severed head delivered to the gates, bloodied crosses etched into the grounds, and atrocities that spoke louder than words. Caveats for the faint-hearted, but I am neither faint nor afraid. I heeded none of them.

Where his dogs sniff and howl, my silent vengeance glides like a phantom. My hands, unseen, carve a path in the dark. My archers, ghosts with venom-tipped arrows, whisper death from afar. Silence itself is the voice of retribution, and tonight, it will sing in the key of despair.

The Academy is heavily guarded tonight.

And then there she is—fragile yet untouchable, luminous in her determination. She senses the storm brewing, I see it in her fleeting glances, and her unsaid troubles. But tonight is about her. Tonight, she will be the light in the darkness, the diamond that shatters shadows. Her thoughts must not stray to dread or doubt, for the stage demands all of her, and the world will bow to her brilliance.

The audience stirs, their murmurs a tide of anticipation, as the ballerina on stage dips into her final bow. Applause erupts, loud and fleeting, and I take my place as the older gentleman at the piano rises. His hands, worn and trembling, wave to the crowd as he departs.

Oblivious to the shifting tides of fate, she enters like a dream, and the world stills. Her gaze finds mine in the dim light, her wide eyes asking a thousand questions that I answer with the curve of a smile. A single wink, and her fear melts into fire. The lights bloom around her, illuminating every thread of her radiance.

She is the essence of art incarnate, draped in a romantic platter tutu that glimmers like starlight. The bodice, encrusted with diamonds and gemstones, weaves a tapestry of brilliance against the pure white fabric. Embroidery as delicate as frost, ribbons cascading like whispers, sequins catching the light with every breath she takes. She isethereal, a goddess spun from moonlight, and every soul in the room is captive to her spell.

Yet even as she takes her position, poised and perfect, I feel the noose tightening around us. Hell is here, its rumble is a dirge that only I can hear. Basilio’s dogs are near, their breaths foul, and their steps clumsy yet relentless. They think of me trapped, lured into their web, but they forget—I am the spider that spins unseen.

Let them come. Let them howl and bare their fangs. Tonight, her brilliance will blind them, and in the shadows, death will waltz to its own silent symphony.

Chloé Archambeau

A designer in France we tasked with creating the ballet attire she would adorn, complete with intricate jewelry and ruby-encrusted en pointe ballet flats.

Her eyes search over the crowd, and when her brows furrow, the realization that she’s looking for her parents strikes my heart with sorrow. However, she quickly shakes her head and nods at me to begin, suppressing the anguish within.

In this room, the presence of pristine wealth is undeniable, seeping from the skin of governors and housewives alike. The dance is a privilege for most to witness, but not for those draped in gold and luxury. Swan Lake, a reflection of riches, gleams like jewels set in the earth itself.

Les Champs-Elysées

She curtsies, a delicate bow of reverence and command, and so I begin. The first note spills into the silence, clinging to the air like a lingering shadow, like tobacco stains etched into a dying room. The music creeps into every crevice, unfurling its tendrils, swallowing the quiet whole. It is a language carved from the soul, ancient and eternal, and once it binds you, it never lets you go.

When my fingers touch the keys, something dark and serpentine stirs within me, coiling and uncoiling like a predator in wait. The cacophony of voices in my mind—the ones that haunt me, torment me—are silenced, crushed by the sound I conjure. Time stops. Breath halts. The room fades, and for one fleeting, lonely moment, the world dissolves into a single note, before it is joined by another and another, cascading like water over jagged rocks. The melody builds, consuming everything, and I am lost in its relentless tide.

This music, this tempest I summon, is not for me, it is for her. It gives her life, a chaos so exquisite it feels divine. The stage becomes her altar, the polished wooden floor, her sacrificial ground, and her body the instrument of creation. Odessa rises, her movements imbued with a violent beauty, as though some otherworldly force pulls her strings. She doesn’t simply dance, she is possessed, her body a vessel for something primal, something unspeakable.

Her rhythm is feral, untamed, yet impossibly precise, her every step a heartbeat in perfect harmony with the piano’s mournful wail. She darts across the stage like a storm given form, a burst of ravenous desire that cannot be contained. Her limbs stretch and snap, her form twisting and turning as though her very essence is being unwound before my eyes. Her movements are unearthly, a language of fire and smoke, as if she has been torn from the heavens and cast down to earth, burning like an angel in exile.

Odessa speaks not with words but with the poetry of her dance. Each pirouette is a stanza, each leap a line, her body crafting verses that whisper to the dark corners of my soul. She spins, a whirlwind of alabaster and shadow, her arms cutting through the air with the wild abandon of a storm-tossed ship. She soars, her body suspended as thoughgravity itself bows before her, only to fall with the grace of dying petals. And when she lands, the earth seems to hold its breath, trembling in reverence at her command.

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