Page 31 of Dark as the Cursed Abyss

Farah’s fingers curled slightly at her sides. Chloe’s voice slipped into her mind without warning. You. The word echoed, soft and certain, threading through her thoughts like a whisper she could not silence.

It wasn’t possible. Even after Chloe’s memories were stripped from her in the first trial, somehow she still wanted Farah. The Mysteries did not lie. They twisted. They provoked. They peeled back layers until nothing remained but the truth beneath, but they did not lie.

Chloe had looked at her—really looked at her—and answered without hesitation. Not politics. Not strategy. Not survival. Every reason why she had first said that they were engaged.

Farah pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes until color burst behind them, until the pressure grounded her in something real. It would be easy to lean into it—the way Chloe’s presence steadied something in her that had long since fractured. Easy to let herself exist in that space between them, where things felt simpler. Softer. Dangerous. Because the world did not allow for softness.

Khalid Athanas had made sure of that.

The thought alone was enough to turn her stomach. Her hands dropped slowly, her breathing uneven now as memory clawed its way forward—uninvited, unwanted, unstoppable. Golden hair tangled with blood. Amber eyes dimming. The sharp, metallic scent of iron thick in the air. Celene.

Farah’s chest constricted so tightly it felt as if her ribs might crack under the pressure. It didn’t matter who or what Chloe was. Princess. Heir. Powerful. None of it would save her. Khalid did not destroy based on status. He destroyed based on weakness and Chloe was Farah’s last weakness left.

She would not bury another person she cared about. Would not watch another life bleed out because of her. Her gaze drifted back to the mirror despite herself. To the sweater. To the softness she had allowed, if only for a moment. Her resolve wavered. Because for the first time in years, walking away did not feel like survival. It felt like something that would ruin her.

A sharp knock cut through the silence.

Farah’s head snapped toward the door instantly, instincts flaring, body going still in a way that had nothing to do with the cold.

“Enter,” she called, already shifting her stance, already aware of every possible angle in the room.

The door opened before she had even gotten the word out and Acacius stepped inside as if he belonged there. He paused just beyond the threshold, his gaze sweeping over her slowly—not lingering inappropriately, not crude—but observant. Calculating. Taking in everything.

“The new outfit suits you,” he said, one shoulder leaning lazily against the doorframe.

Farah arched a brow, though her fingers flexed slightly at her sides. “Careful, prince,” she replied dryly. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“It was,” he said easily. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

A faint huff of amusement escaped her before she could stop it. “You’re late,” she added, glancing briefly toward the darkening window.

“Am I?” He pushed off the frame, stepping further into the room. “Or were you simply not ready to be seen?”

The words landed sharper than they should have. Farah stilled for a fraction of a second. He noticed too much.

“Must you always speak in riddles?” she asked coolly, turning away to grab her cloak.

“Fine. I am here to escort you, dear princess. As you requested,” he replied. “Haloa waits for no one. Not even reluctant brides.”

She scoffed, swinging the cloak around her shoulders. “I am not reluctant. Just not a person particularly conscious of time.”

He smirked faintly but said nothing. As she moved toward the door, she hesitated—just barely. The question slipped out before she could bury it.

“Have you seen Chloe?”

Acacius went quiet for a beat. “No,” he said at last. “Why? Were you looking for her?”

Farah’s jaw tightened. “I think she’s avoiding me.”

“Interesting,” he murmured, stepping aside. “I find avoidance far more honest than whatever game you are playing.”

She didn’t answer, because she wasn’t sure he was wrong.

The cold hit her like a blade the moment they stepped outside. Farah drew in a slow breath, the chill biting into her lungs, sharpening her senses, dragging her back into herself. Below them, the fields burned with life. The bonfire roared at the center, flames spiraling upward, devouring the night sky. Sparks scattered like dying stars, swallowed by the dark. Drums pulsed in a deep, rhythmic cadence she could feel in her bones. Around the fire, figures moved. Not danced—moved.

Wild. Unrestrained. Bodies swaying, stomping, spinning in patterns that felt older than language itself. Furs draped across shoulders, masks obscuring faces—wolves, bears, creatures of myth and nightmare.

It was ritualistic and far more primal than anything Farah had ever known. Her gaze swept the crowd searching for silver hair and sharp eyes. A presence she could feel even without seeing. Something tight and unwelcome coiled in her chest.