A mont’s hesitation. Then Marcella lifted a cluster of translucent gray berries, cold and dry in her palm. "I don’t know its na. But I’ve seen it in old texts. Supposedly edible, sweet. But too much brings confusion, hallucinations then paralysis and death."
Aurelia’s eyes glead with sothing like approval. "Impressive."
Marcella returned the berries to their place. "I wasn’t aware being your sister-in-law ca with an entrance exam."
"Oh, it doesn’t," Aurelia said, beginning to crush leaves into the mortar. "But being a Montclair does." Her hands were thodical as she poured steaming water into the obsidian bowl. The scent rose... earthy, sharp, almost spicy.
Marcella watched the motion. "And what would this test have proven?"
Aurelia didn’t answer imdiately. She stirred once, twice then slid the bowl across the table. "It would’ve told if you’re clever or reckless, if you were taught sermons... or survival."
Marcella accepted the bowl. The heat curled against her skin, ghosting her cheeks. She took a sip, just enough to be polite.
Warm. Bitter. Clean. Not poison. Not yet.
She glanced at Aurelia. "And?"
"You’re not stupid," Aurelia said, sitting back. "That’s more than I expected."
Her eyes landed towards the figure approaching them. "Brother?" She straightened with imdiate, instinctual awareness.
His eyes were darker than usual, shadowed in a way that didn’t co from sleeplessness or travel. Sothing was wrong.
A glow buried too deep to be seen directly, but it was there. Like sothing looking out through him.
Aurelia took one look at him — and moved.
Without a word, she snatched the obsidian bowl she’d just handed Marcella and turned, running toward him. Her skirts caught in the frost-heavy air, her sleeves billowing like wings.
She reached him, hands steady as she pressed the warm bowl into his. "Drink."
Berith didn’t question her. He downed the brew in two long swallows, jaw tight, his breathing shallow and uneven.
Marcella rose to her feet slowly, uncertainly. Her fingers had clenched around the edge of the bench without realizing it.
What was that?
Her husband stood like a pillar about to crack. His shoulders were hunched, hands trembling slightly as he handed the empty bowl back to Aurelia. She didn’t speak. She simply watched him, her eyes sharp and assessing.
Marcella’s stomach tightened. He didn’t look right. Not just weary. Altered.
The ache in her chest stirred — that quiet fla she thought she’d smothered long ago flickered again.
"Is everything... alright?" she asked, her voice more brittle than intended.
Aurelia turned back toward the table, gathering a few more herbs. Her hands moved swiftly, but Marcella noticed the way her shoulders were still tense. Still alert.
Berith was silent. He looked at his hands like he didn’t trust them.
Marcella stopped just short of touching his arm. Her voice was low, uncertain. "You’re trembling."
"I’m not," he murmured.
But he was.
She stepped in closer. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body — a different heat than the garden’s. This one felt wrong. Like kindling caught on the edge of a blaze.
Marcella felt the ache flare again. Not just pity. Not just concern.
Anger. Fear. Love. Sothing else she hadn’t dared na.
*****
When the al ended, the family began to disperse—Aurelia vanished into the eastern wing with a half-empty tea bowl in hand, Lord Cassar Montclair muttered sothing about paperwork and retired early, and the servants moved like shadows, clearing the table without a word.
Berith had said almost nothing throughout dinner.
And that silence had haunted her more than any of the Montclairs’ cold pleasantries.
He wasn’t cruel. Just... distant. Drawn too tightly, like a bowstring monts before snapping.
This wasn’t the Berith she rembered. Not from her past life.
Marcella walked the darkened corridor back toward her own chamber, candlelight trembling in her hand. She passed the garden atrium—the sa one where Aurelia had tested her with poison and tea—and paused briefly at the window, watching snow ghost along the edges of the glass like pale moths.
Ashenholt was beautiful in the way ruined cathedrals were beautiful.
But tonight, it felt colder than usual.
Her fingers gripped the brass handle to her door. She stood there for a heartbeat. Two.
Then Marcella turned and walked the other way.
Berith’s chambers were at the far end of the western hall, past the library and a corridor lined with portraits of grim Montclair ancestors. The doors to his room were tall, dark wood carved with symbols that were older than the noble lines themselves.
Marcella hesitated before knocking.
She could feel the faintest pull in her chest—like a magnetic thread, soft and insistent, pointing her to him. It wasn’t emotion. It was sothing else.
The Fla, she realized. Still alive in her. Still tethered.
She knocked gently.
The door opened after a mont. Not fully. Just wide enough to show Berith’s tired eyes, rimd red like he hadn’t slept in days.
He didn’t speak. Just stepped aside and let her in.
The room was dim. The hearth still burned low, and the curtains were drawn. His sword hung by the bedside, unbuckled, untouched.
Berith looked like a man who’d been through war and hadn’t changed his clothes afterward.
"I hope I’m not intruding," Marcella said softly, stepping in. "I just couldn’t sleep."
Berith gave a small shake of his head. "You’re not."
She perched lightly on the edge of the chaise near the window, keeping her movents fluid, casual. "I suppose I just needed a little company. Ashenholt is beautiful, but it’s not exactly warm, is it?"
He didn’t answer.
She glanced over, trying to find a sliver of his old self in his expression. "Your family’s been... kinder than I expected. Hospitable."
Berith let out a soft grunt...sothing that might’ve been agreent, or indifference.
Her words hung in the air. Marcella felt the pause between them stretch too long. So, she tried again. "You’ve been... different since the wedding."
Berith’s jaw tensed.
Marcella tilted her head, keeping her voice careful. "Is sothing bothering you? If it’s about the marriage, or this arrangent... you can tell ."
A beat. Then another.
And finally, Berith turned toward her. "You sealed the Ashen Fla yourself, didn’t you?"
Marcella froze.
The silence in the room deepened, as if even the fire was waiting.
She swallowed. "What are you talking about?"
"You know what I’m talking about." His tone wasn’t accusing, just tired, honest in a way that felt dangerous. "I can feel it," Berith continued. "My Gate... can feel it. I’ve always been able to sense the Fla. Especially when it’s wrong."
Marcella stood slowly, heart beginning to pound. "How did you—"
"I knew before the wedding night."
That stole her breath.
Berith looked away, pacing a few steps toward the fire, pressing his palms to his eyes like he was trying to rub the truth away. "You went through the ritual without . Didn’t you?"
Marcella said nothing for a long mont. Then, calmly, evenly, she replied, "I did what I had to do."
"I know."
"I didn’t want to be bound."
His jaw flexed. "I know."
She took a breath. "The Fla doesn’t require two to be sealed, only to be locked. I sealed it. It’s done."
Berith ran a hand down his face. "You don’t understand what that’s done to ."
"Then explain it."
Berith paced once, twice then stopped. "My Gate is open," he said, almost bitter. "It’s not fully unsealed, but it’s stirred constantly. I can’t shut it down the way I used to. I can’t control it the way I should."
Marcella tilted her head. "Because of ?"
"Because of what you did to the Fla. It was supposed to balance us both, the power between us. But now it’s unaligned. I’m carrying half a bond that keeps trying to complete itself."
She stared at him. "You think the Gate wants ?"
"I think the Gate wants completion," he said hoarsely. "It’s not personal, if that... made sense.
Marcella blinked, stunned by the raw honesty in his tone. "You’re saying your emotions..."
"—aren’t mine half the ti," he said. "They’re reflexes, reactions. I try to stay composed and sothing inside tears through it. I keep wanting things I shouldn’t. Feeling things, I can’t explain."
Marcella folded her arms. "You think I made you emotional?"
Berith let out a dry, breathless laugh. "You made unfinished."
That landed harder than she expected.
He wasn’t accusing her. He was just telling the truth.
Marcella watched him for a long ti, letting her thoughts settle like ash after a fire. "You didn’t co after that night," she said, dismissing him. "You could’ve. The Pact would’ve allowed it."
"I’m not a man who takes what isn’t offered," Berith expressed, facing her again. "Even if my Gate demands it."
Then Marcella laughed. Not loud. Not mocking.
Just soft and dry..the kind of laugh that wrapped its arms around a mory she shouldn’t still be holding.
Marcella pulled up a smirk, thinking "Says the man who devoured in our past life on our wedding night."
Her cheeks flushed before she could stop it.
Gods, was she actually blushing?
Marcella turned her head away, trying to pretend it was from the hearth’s heat. But it wasn’t.
There. Right there. The Fla ached in his presence.
A slow ache in her chest, not pain — not desire, either — sothing stranger. Sothing more intimate. The kind of pull that shouldn’t have existed between enemies. The kind of feeling that made the boundaries between lives blur, then his words, spoken with exhaustion, rang back in her mind...
"I can’t think straight. I feel things I can’t trace."
He was suffering for her.
Berith Montclair. The sa man who had kill her in her past life.
Marcella plastered a smile across her face, covering the confusion with charm. "Well. I suppose we’re both tired."
And without giving him the satisfaction of seeing her hesitation, she turned and left.
Marcella didn’t slow her pace until she reached her own chambers. Once the door closed behind her, she stood for a long while, candle flickering in her hand.
She didn’t sit, didn’t sigh, didn’t weep.
One thing had beco clear tonight... clearer than ever.
The Ashen Fla wasn’t dormant. It lived inside her and it was changing her.
Marcella could feel it: how her reactions to Berith had softened, shifted. How she had laughed just now...laughed at the mory of their first wedding night, instead of flinching from it.
Her fingers curled at her sides. This wasn’t her. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
She shook her head, heart pulsing with a strange heat. No. No, this is the Fla’s fault. The Fla wants completion. The Fla wants union. That’s all. It’s not real.
Berith Montclair was never her ally.. He was her executioner, her murderer.
The man who, in her past life, had torn her heart from her chest and let her bleed for it. And yet.
Marcella had smiled at him tonight. She had wanted to.
Her hand trembled as she reached to snuff out the candle.
Marcella would fix this. She had to before the Fla made her forget everything she’d co back to avenge.
Reviews
All reviews (0)