Page 72 of What Blooms from Death

He let the full weight of his gaze fall upon me—a heavy glare of calculated precision, made all the more imposing by the way his eyes seemed to darken as the seconds passed, becoming an unsettling abyss.

“Nothing would delight me more than the chance to escort you through my city,” he finally said. “Provided you do me the honor of spending the night as my guests before you carry on to wherever the next part of your journey leads you.”

Thalia stiffened at my side, but she said nothing. She understood my tactics and reasoning—that we might not have another opportunity to enter the city.

We would have to take what we could get.

I lifted my chin and refused to let my fear show. “We accept.”

Chapter Eighteen

Nova

After passingbeyond the outer walls of Erebos, we were taken directly toward the center of the sprawling city. We moved swiftly through the streets. I absorbed little of what we passed; there was simply too much to take in around every corner.

What Ididnotice were more of those strange blue flames. Every shadowy being we passed seemed to be carrying their own personal fire in some way, much like the soldiers escorting us. There were statues, too, like the ones at the main gate, that held torches or cups or other vessels full of sapphire smoke and flame. A river of strangely dark water crisscrossed through the streets, under narrow footbridges, and even sections ofitoccasionally flickered with wisps of blue.

Despite calling himself our escort, the scythe-wielding man brought up the rear of our company rather than leading us. He paid us no attention as we walked, either; he was too busy scanning the dark alleyways and houses we passed, one of his blades withdrawn and hanging casually at his side. Anticipating an attack, I thought—which seemed strange if he was the sovereign of this city, as he claimed to be.

Ultimately, no one ambushed us, but we did draw the gaze of almost every wandering being we passed. As Thalia had said, they were indeed different from the shades who had haunted our steps outside the walls—more solid, their voices more clear in tone and weight, though they spoke in a language I couldn’t decipher. And maybe it was my imagination, but the soldiers escorting us seemed more alive, too, now that we were inside the city.

After twisting and turning down more roads than I could keep track of, our destination suddenly loomed before us: A wide path leading to a large manor with gleaming white walls and three distinct, domed roofs. Unsurprisingly, the building was accented with blue flames. In this case, they were concentrated mainly on the corners, in lines of lamps that ran down like waterfalls, cascading into troughs of more fire that swept along the building’s foundation.

As we drew nearer to the manor, the flames attached to the belts worn by our escorts seemed to glow brighter…and the bracelet my father had given me began to tremble faintly.

I had to work to steady my breathing as that trembling grew steadier. Stronger.

Aleksander cut me a curious glance, peering over the head of the revived girl, who remained in his arms; she was awake and seemingly regaining her strength, but she still had little interest in walking on her own two feet.

My bracelet continued to twitch. Now wasn’t the time to draw attention to it, however, so I picked up my pace and ignored Aleksander’s questioning gaze as we made our way into the towering residence before us.

Inside, the air was thick with the palpable weight of things lost and left to rot. Grand hallways led to opulent yet decaying rooms full of furniture upholstered in dust-covered velvet. Faded murals lined the walls, depicting a myriad of scenes,many of which were set in places that reminded me of spots in the world above. I wondered if they were the memories of the dead who had taken up residence here, and if the dead themselves had painted them.

Did they still possess the kind of knowledge and awareness needed to create such things?

As we passed into a narrower, more private-feeling corridor, we were immediately met by a small army of servants dressed in dark robes, their faces entirely covered by deep purple veils, save for a strip revealing their eyes. All of these eyes gleamed in similar shades of blue, but with varying levels of brightness—as though their color had been leaching away at different rates over time.

They ushered our group to the second floor, where we were each assigned a private room to rest and recover in. Even the young girl received her own quarters. I nearly intervened as she was pried from Aleksander’s arms and shown toward those quarters—she looked terrified at the thought of being separated from us—but the servants ultimately moved too fast for me to stop them.

Allof this was moving alarmingly fast, and suddenly, Phantom and I stood alone at the end of the hallway, facing the door to our own room.

(They seem eager to get us alone and separate from one another,) Phantom said, voicing my concerns.

I tried to reassure him with a scratch between his ears, even as I was scanning the area for potential escape routes.

A metal sculpture caught my eye—one of a tall, fierce-looking woman carrying a shield in one hand and a torch in the other. Her torch was empty, missing the blue flames I’d come to anticipate everywhere in this city. She was balanced on a pedestal at the end of the hall, and in the reflection of herraised shield, I watched our host saying something to one of his servants before he turned and glanced toward me with a smile.

“One moment,” he called.

I turned slowly to face him.

“We haven’t truly introduced ourselves, have we?” he asked.

“We haven’t.” I smiled, still determined not to show any of the fear I felt, and I stepped forward, offering my hand to him first. “Bellanova Halestorn. Or just Nova, rather.”

He squeezed my hand. His skin felt even more calloused and rough than it appeared. Up close, I couldn’t help but notice how he seemed much older than I’d initially thought; there were patches of peppery grey within his dark beard, and his face was as rough as his hands, his features hardened in that particular way that came from a lifetime of making difficult decisions.

“Kaelen Drakmere,” he said. “I’ve earned the nicknameReaperaround these parts, you might have heard—but it’s very much a misnomer, I assure you. Death is not my focus these days; I’m far more interested in the bits of life we’ve managed to hold on to here in Erebos. I apologize for speaking so roughly to you all before; it was merely part of the act I usually put on while outside the safety of this manor.”

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