Chapter 14: The Thorn's Whisper
The wind had changed.Elias could feel it as they rode south through the passes—a heaviness in the air, a strange pressure in his skull, as though the mountains themselves were listening. Snow fell in lazy spirals, but each flake that landed on Isabella's skin seemed to vanish before it could melt.
She hadn't spoken since they left the Abbey. Not truly. She answered questions in clipped words, her gaze fixed somewhere past the horizon. The old Isabella—quick-witted, warm even in defiance—was muted, wrapped in something Elias couldn't touch.
Celina kept glancing over her shoulder at her. Once, when Isabella dozed in the saddle, Celina leaned close to Elias.
"She's carrying it," she whispered.
"The Thorn?" Elias asked.
Celina shook her head. "Not the branch. The mark. The Conclave planted it in her. That's worse."
By dusk, they reached a hunting lodge hidden among the pines. The place had belonged to Marcellus's uncle, though it looked abandoned for years—the shutters hanging loose, snow piled against the door. Inside, they lit a small fire, careful to keep the smoke thin.
Marcellus unrolled maps on the table. "If the Conclave's rite was incomplete, they'll come after her. They can't risk losing what they started."
Elias glanced toward Isabella, who stood by the window, her profile lit by the fire. She didn't seem to be listening, yet her lips moved faintly, as though repeating something under her breath.
"What if the rite wasn't incomplete?" Celina asked.
Marcellus froze, then looked to Elias.
That night, sleep came slowly. When it did, Elias dreamed again—not of the Abbey, but of a vast hall of mirrors. Each reflection showed Isabella at a different moment: laughing in the gardens, weeping in candlelight, standing over him with a dagger in her hand.
He walked toward her, but with each step, her reflection darkened, until her eyes were pools of black and her lips curved into a smile that was not hers.
"You can't save me," she said in a voice like the Raven's.
He woke to find her standing over him in the dim firelight, watching.
"You were speaking in your sleep," she murmured. "Calling my name."
Elias sat up, heart pounding. "Isabella… what happened in there?"
Her expression softened, almost like the woman he remembered. "I came back to you. Isn't that enough?"
But when she turned away, he saw her shadow lag behind her body, moving just a fraction too late.
The next morning, they headed for the Lowlands. News traveled faster than they did—by the time they reached the market town of Vellin, whispers were already moving through the streets. The Conclave had taken the Abbey. The relic was missing. The northern passes were closed under "quarantine" for plague.
Elias knew it was a lie. The plague was their cover.
As they crossed the square, he caught sight of a familiar banner: a black wolf on silver. The crest of House Varensen—the family that had once stood closest to his own before the purge. The sight churned old grief and older rage.
Marcellus noticed too. "If Varensen men are here, the capital knows something."
They took rooms at an inn under false names. Elias had barely closed the door when Isabella caught his arm.
"You need to take me to the capital," she said.
He blinked. "We can't—"
"I need to see the Queen Regent. Alone."
Elias studied her. "Why?"
"Because," she said quietly, "I can give her what she wants."
There was something in her tone—a certainty that made the hair on his neck rise. "And what is that?"
Isabella's lips curved. "Power."
That evening, Celina pulled Elias aside. "You can't take her there. Whatever's inside her, the Regent will try to use it. And if she does…" She hesitated. "The veil won't hold."
Elias was torn. He'd seen enough of the Regent's hunger to believe Celina was right. But he'd also seen the danger in trying to stop Isabella when she'd made up her mind.
He didn't have long to decide—Varensen men arrived at the inn before dawn.
They came quietly, in threes and fours, dressed as merchants and travelers. Elias spotted them by the way they scanned doorways and corners, their hands always near their belts. When the first knock came, it was gentle.
When no one answered, it was a kick.
Elias shoved Isabella toward the window. "Go with Marcellus—take the back stair."
"What about you?" she demanded.
"I'll find you."
She didn't move. For a heartbeat, he thought she might refuse. Then she leaned close, her lips brushing his ear. "Don't let them take me alive."
The fight in the hallway was fast and brutal. Elias dropped the first man with a thrust under the ribs, blocked a second's strike, and slammed him into the wall hard enough to crack plaster. Steel rang on steel, boots thudded on wood, and somewhere below, Marcellus's voice bellowed orders.
By the time they reached the stables, the night air was thick with the smell of blood and horses.
But Isabella wasn't there.
They found her on the north road, riding alone. She didn't slow when they caught up, didn't look at them.
"Where are you going?" Elias demanded, spurring alongside.
"To the capital," she said simply. "With or without you."
The snow began again, fine as ash. And though she didn't turn her head, Elias saw her lips moving—softly, almost lovingly—whispering to something that was not there.
The Thorn had found its voice.