The infirmary was a tomb of shadows and shame.
Jack sat on the edge of the cot, his bandaged hand cradled against his chest like a broken thing. The room reeked of crushed herbs and decay—yarrow, comfrey, and something darker beneath, like soil left too long in a sealed jar. Moonlight speared through the barred window, carving his silhouette into the stone floor. He flexed his fingers, hissing as the blistered flesh pulled taut. The pain was a living thing, pulsing in time with the memory of flames licking his skin, the raider's stag-mask cracking like an eggshell. Sentiment is a weakness, Evangeline had said. Yet here he was, branded by his own recklessness.
A moth battered itself against the lantern, wings frantic. Jack watched it, mesmerized by its desperation. How long until it burns itself alive? He'd wondered the same about Evangeline—and himself.
The door creaked open.
Evangeline swept in, her presence sharpening the air. She carried a silver tray laden with salves, bandages, and a bottle of amber liquid that glowed like trapped sunlight. Her gown was simpler tonight—charcoal-gray wool, unadorned—but her hair remained a weapon, braided into a crown of intricate knots. She didn't look at him as she set the tray on a side table, the clatter of glass against wood louder than necessary.
"Sit properly," she ordered, nodding to the cot.
He obeyed, the straw mattress crunching beneath him. She stood too close, her skirts brushing his knees, and began unwinding his bandages. Her fingers were cold, her movements precise, but he caught the faint tremor in her breath as the blistered mess of his palm came into view.
"You're lucky it wasn't your sword hand," she said, dousing a cloth in whiskey. The peat-smoke sting of it pricked his eyes.
"I don't have a sword hand."
"Exactly." She pressed the cloth to his burns.
Fire seared his nerves. Jack gritted his teeth, his free hand clawing the edge of the cot until the wood groaned. Evangeline's thumb circled his wrist, steadying him—or restraining him. He wasn't sure.
"Why did you do it?" she asked, her voice low.
"You already know."
"I know what you said." She dipped the cloth again, her eyes never leaving his face. "But you're a terrible liar, Riven. Always have been."
The old name—Riven—still felt like a poorly tailored coat. Jack met her gaze, the frost in her violet eyes thawing at the edges. "You wouldn't believe the truth."
"Try me."
He hesitated. The truth was a frayed thread: Because when you looked at me in the woods, for one second, you weren't alone. And neither was I. But he couldn't stitch that into words. Instead, he said, "I wanted them to fear you. Not the shade. Not the lie. You."
Her lashes flickered. For a heartbeat, her mask slipped, revealing the ghost of the girl who once wept for pruned roses. Then she rewrapped his hand, her voice brittle. "Sentiment is a flaw."
"So is pride."
She stepped back, the tray rattling as she snatched up the whiskey bottle. "Meet me in the west wing in an hour. Wear gloves."
The west wing was a carcass of forgotten grandeur.
Jack trailed Evangeline through corridors choked with dust, their footsteps echoing like whispers in a cathedral. Tapestries hung in tatters, their threads bleached by time, depicting battles he didn't recognize—men with roses for eyes, women dancing with wolves. She stopped before a moth-eaten drape, its fabric disintegrating at her touch, and pressed a hidden panel in the wall.
Stone groaned. A doorway yawned open, exhaling air that smelled of wet earth and iron.
"The archives," she said, lighting a lantern. "Where my ancestors buried their sins."
The staircase spiraled into darkness, each step slick with moss. Jack's gloves gripped the damp railing, his burned hand throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Halfway down, the temperature plummeted. His breath fogged, and the lantern's flame guttered, casting monstrous shadows on the walls.
At the bottom stretched a vaulted chamber, its ceiling lost to gloom. Shelves sagged under the weight of leather-bound tomes, their spines embossed with screaming faces and thorned vines. Between them stood glass cases, fogged with age, housing withered roses in shades of black and arterial red. Evangeline trailed her fingers over a book titled The Garden of Minds, its cover shuddering at her touch.
"Every Vossaire's thoughts," she murmured. "Their dreams, their crimes—all preserved here. All poisoned."
Jack approached a case holding a rose with petals like cracked porcelain. Inside, a plaque read: Rosa Sanguis—Harvested from the heart of Alaric Vossaire, 312 A.E.
"Harvested?"
"The roses grow where we bury our dead." Evangeline's voice was flat. "The more… fervent the life, the more beautiful the bloom."
A chill prickled Jack's spine. "And Seraphine?"
She turned, her lantern painting her face in fractured light. "Why do you think we're here?"
They found the portrait in an alcove veiled by cobwebs.
Evangeline wiped the dust from the frame with her sleeve, revealing a woman who stole Jack's breath.
Seraphine Vossaire sat atop a throne of living thorns, her gown a cascade of midnight silk and silver brambles. Storm-gray eyes—his eyes—glinted beneath a scar identical to the one slashing Jack's brow. At her throat hung a pendant shaped like Rosa Noctis, its petals edged in gold, and in her lap lay a book bound in what looked like human skin.
"She vanished three centuries ago," Evangeline said, her voice hollow. "After bonding with the thorns. They say she became one with the garden—that her voice still guides us."
Jack's reflection in the glass overlapped Seraphine's face. The scar, the angle of her jaw, the defiance in her gaze—it was Riven's face. His face. "You see it too."
"You wear her scar. Her arrogance." Evangeline's nails dug into the frame. "Coincidence?"
"You don't believe in those."
"No."
Behind the portrait, hidden in a compartment lined with velvet, lay a journal. Its pages crackled as Evangeline flipped through them, her lips moving soundlessly as she translated the archaic script. Slowly, her face paled.
"When the thorn and the ghost converge, the garden shall awaken," she read, her voice fraying. "The vessel of ash and the heir of venom must choose: to break the covenant or become its thorns."
Jack's throat tightened. "A prophecy."
"A death sentence." She snapped the journal shut. "The 'vessel of ash'—you. The 'heir of venom'—me. The thorns want us to replace Seraphine. To feed the garden until it devours us."
The walls began to bleed.
Black sap oozed from the stones, hissing as it struck the floor. Roots erupted from the cracks, thrashing like serpents. Evangeline's dagger flashed, severing one, but two more coiled around her ankles, dragging her to her knees.
"Jack—!"
He lunged, grabbing her wrist. The roots lashed his arms, thorns biting through his gloves. Pain seared his shoulders as they yanked him backward, but he held fast, his burned hand screaming.
"Let go!" Evangeline snarled, hacking at the vines.
"Not. Happening."
A root speared his shoulder, hot blood soaking his shirt. The pain sharpened his focus. He fumbled for the whiskey bottle in his coat, smashed it against the wall, and thrust the lantern into the spill.
Fire roared. The roots recoiled, shrieking. Evangeline scrambled free, hauling him up the stairs as the archive burned behind them.
In the stable loft, moonlight pooled like spilled milk.
Evangeline stitched his wound in silence, her needle glinting as it pierced his flesh. Hay prickled his back, and the scent of horses and blood clung to the air. Jack watched her face, the way her brow furrowed—not in anger, but something quieter.
"You're insufferable," she said at last, tying off the thread.
"So I've been told."
A pause. The wind outside carried the whisper of roses against glass.
"Why didn't you let go?" she asked softly.
He met her gaze. "You're not the only one who hates losing."
Her needle stilled. For a heartbeat, he thought she might smile. Then she stood, brushing hay from her skirts. "Rest. We hunt the scholar at dawn."
"Scholar?"
"The one who knows how to kill a god." She paused at the ladder, her silhouette sharp against the moon. "And Jack?"
"Yes?"
"Stop trying to die. It's tedious."
When she was gone, he found the locket.
It lay nestled in his coat pocket, cold and heavy—a twin to Seraphine's pendant, its rose petals edged in gold. Inside, a miniature portrait of Evangeline stared back, her eyes unyielding.
On the back, etched in jagged script: "The thorns remember."
Chapter 5 End.