Page 9 of Threads Of Madly Whispers

“You are always there, ever since that night, lurking, watching, taunting me. I feel you around me, stalking me, and you fail at it, dismally too.” I grit my teeth, hard from the chill.

Should I not be concerned, should I not be worried, should I not—I stopped asking and needing answers to questions I found hard to fathom. Maybe that makes me sick, in some twisted way, psychotic even, or perhaps the human brain works in wonderment. Maybe, just maybe, something about the man in front of me ignites a wildfire of rarity. After all, mama used to say I found oddity a marvel.

My parents said a lot.

Or maybe I’m just suicidal, and chasing death.How poetic.

"Your delirium is troubling," he declares, his voice cutting through the air,again, as if my very thoughts are disintegrating under his scrutiny. "I have neither concealed my presence norstalkedyou, for you have revelled in the attention. And one never exposes his hand, his cards, unlikeyou."

"I have shown you nothing," I retort, though my words falter, the heat of his gaze holding me hostage.

"Oh, but you have,Odessa," he replies, his voice cold as winter's breath. "You have shown me everything I need to know."

He knows my name.

I am reckless, yes, but never like a child enticed by the false allure of candy. This game,his game,I want no part of, nor the foul rules that bind it. The courage I draped aroundmyself melts away the moment he speaks my name, as though the very sound of it unravels me. I try to voice my refusal, to push back, but the words never escape, for he is already gone. His shadow slips away into the night, and instead of dwelling on the absence, I vault over the fence and turn my steps toward home.

Yet, even as I walk the desolate streets, the feeling clings to me like a wet plastic bag. It enshrouds around my thoughts and tightens in my chest—the strange, disquieting sensation that he watches still, his eyes lurking from some unseen corner, hidden in the shadows, waiting for me to turn. To find him,my dearest stalker.

Chapter 5

Thorn – unknown 10557

Wild Rose. That’s what she is, a wild, untamed beauty whose thorns cut deeper than any blade. She stands there, a flame in the dark, glowing with a sort of feral grace that calls to something long buried inside me. Her eyes, they hold secrets, dark and delicious. I caught the spark of magic in her gaze as she danced, as if the very stars themselves had spoken of their forbidden promises to her soul. Her magic, though, is not the kind of beauty you would find in fairy tales. No, hers is a darker thing, stygian and dripping with desire, the kind of magic that wraps around you like smoke and shadows. Like a temptation you can not resist.

She is a nyctophile, a lover of the night, and I watched her in awe, as she surrendered herself to the darkness. Not just surrendered—no, she invited it, exhorted it to claim her, to pull her into its abyss. She stood there in its embrace, bathed in the black, the shadows folding over her like a lover’s touch. It was intoxicating, watching her lose herself, allowing the murkiness to swallow her whole and pull herdeeper into its seductive, suffocating arms. And it was fucking heavenly, beautiful in a way that could not be understood, only felt.

She is a pluviophile too, her heart beats in time with the rhythm of the rain. I’ve seen her. She steps into the storm as if it were her home, her body becoming one with the earth’s tears as they fall in heavy, soaked sheets from the sky. The storm does not scare her. No, it calls to her, wraps around her in a tender, cold embrace, and she answers it. She finds solace in it, comfort in the chaos of each drop that strikes the earth. Her skin glistens beneath the shower of liquid fire, and I can see in her, in that very moment, a wildness that matches the storm's fury, a beauty that only grows in the face of turmoil.

But even in her rawness, I wanted more. She was bare, but I longed to strip away more than just the clothes that clung to her body. I wanted to peel back the layers, to expose what was hidden beneath the surface. The secrets, the dreams, the wounds. I wanted to know her in a way no one else ever could, to touch the parts of her that were as wild and untamed as the storm she danced in.

She challenged me in ways I was not ready for, and it made me feverish. She was like a wildfire that threatened to consume me, and yet, I could not look away. I wanted to burn, to feel the flames of her chaos licking at my soul, unraveling the very threads that held me together. She was the perfect chaos—untamed, unpredictable—and in her destruction, I found something exquisite. Something beautiful. She is the thunder, the fury, and I was lost in it, drowning in her destruction, and I did not care.

My darling Odessa, we are only at the beginning. But in this madness we both accept, there will only be those who dare to dance with death. Who risk everything for the taste you offer. And I’ll risk it all.

Chapter 6

Wild Rose

Elegy for the Lost

Spellbinding. That is the only word that could capture the allure of Haven’s library, this revered sanctuary of knowledge and olden histories. It stretches endlessly before you, with mountainous shelves that rise to the roof, laden with ancient tomes, their spines weathered by time yet still holding secrets in their inked pages. The air here is filled with the scent of age—dusty, musty, but comforting. It smells of stories lived and breathed, of lives that were, in their own time, immortal. This is not just a library, it is a cathedral to the written word, a shrine where every page holds untold truths. The walls seem to sigh with the wisdom of centuries as the stone pillars hold sentinels carved with history and stand as guardians of this treasure trove.

Beneath the vaulted arches of the grand ceiling, intricate murals twist and weave, a kaleidoscope of epics rendered in paint and dreams. The labyrinth of shelves spill boundlessly into shadowed alcoves, each one a haven for therarest of volumes and timeworn manuscripts that have long since slipped from the world’s gaze. These shelves are not mere furniture, they are tombs of knowledge, sheltering stories that no longer see the light of day. And it is in these corners that I find my solace, my obsession. I come here not just to read but to touch the faded leather bindings and to lose myself in the ghosts of long-past stories.

This library, this temple, remains largely untouched by the polished modernity of the academy. Unlike the gleaming marble halls and shiny classrooms that now define the school’s renovations, Haven’s library was spared. It retains its character, its ancient rhythm—one that hums softly in the quiet, with the cadence of time itself. It’s as if the very atmosphere here beats differently, older, slower, in time with the heart of the building. From the shadowed corners to the flickering lamps that cast soft light across pages, there is nothing here that does not captivate. Every inch of it speaks in languages long lost to most, every crumbling parchment hiding more than just words—it hides worlds.

But there’s one thing that calls to me above all else,the gargoyles. Their stony, weathered faces are set high on the balusters that uphold the roof and cast a dark, brooding shadow over the library. They stand guard and grim, frozen in their grotesque beauty. They are the protectors, the silent watchers of this place, and I cannot help but be drawn to them. Their stone eyes seem to pierce through me, sharp and knowing, as though they see all that lies beneath the surface. Perhaps it is their darkness that lures me in, or perhaps it is the way they seem tolivein their lull, their faces carved with both menace and wisdom. There is something macabre about them that hovers in the heart like gold in the veins.

It is within this place of scriptures and ink that I work, alongsideMadgar,the librarian, one who is as mysterious as the library itself. She is a strange lady, with her odd-shaped mole on her cheek and her fiery ruby hair that shimmers like embers when touched by sunlight. Her presence here is as integral as the books she tends to, a living testament to the library’s rugged soul. And though our relationship may not be one of tenderness, there is something between us—an unsaid understanding that echoes in the silence of these ancient walls. We are likeDarcy and Beth, before they loved one another.

I remember when I first started here, desperate for a few coins to pay for my mother's bills and my heart afflicted with her deteriorating self. The academy had put out a call for help in the library, and I leaped at the chance. But when I first met Madgar, her welcome was less than warm.“Get back ye child with the rest of thaim, ye presence innae needed here,”she snapped, her voice as sharp as broken glass. Her eyes were stone, filled with annoyance as if I were a nuisance to her, a disruption to the otherwise peaceful mayhem of her shelves. But strangely, I was not repelled by her harshness. No, instead, I smiled that small, defiant smile that only seemed to irk her more. I could see the faint crease in her brow, the flicker of confusion in her eyes. She was jarred by my reaction, unsettled by the warmth I showed her when she had only offered frost.

And over time, I began to understand her—every snarl, every dismissive word, every clipped sentence. I learned to read her like a book—a stubborn, tightly bound one that took great effort to pry open. Madgar is all hard edges, all prickly thorns, but beneath those jagged layers, there is something real—something raw and honest. In a place where smiles are painted on and the truth is hidden behindveils of politeness, Madgar is a breath of fresh air. She is the voice that speaks when all others remain silent, the one who tells you exactly what she thinks without pretense or polish. She is a jar of tough truths, and I find myself returning to her again and again, craving the reality she offers, even when it cuts deeper than I expect.

It took me a while to see it—at first, I thought the stories were nothing more than rumors too fantastic to believe. The academy is full of gossip, after all. But then, the pieces started to fall into place, each revelation a strike of lightning and each truth unfolding with terrifying clarity. Terrors that left scars deeper than the mind can comprehend. It’s like watching a tree burn, the flames consuming its core until only the remnants of its twisted branches remain. And thoseterrors,once planted deep, never truly leave. They dwell in the roots, in the very air we breathe, a foul taste that haunts every corner of this place.

I had heard the name before,To Spiti Tis Frikis, the house of horrors. Before the academy was built, this place was a slaughterhouse, a home to atrocities that still loiter in the halls—that still pervade the rooms in the dead of night. They say the souls of the victims of theStamatoties Clanroam these very walls, restless and angry. And though the truth of these rumors are difficult to pin down—no one speaks of it, no one dares—I have heard enough to know that there is a darkness here, one that has bled into the bones of this building, staining it for all time.

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