20. Thorne

20

THORNE

The library is quiet, save for the rustle of pages and the occasional creak of ancient wood. I've been here for hours, poring over the book, searching for any hidden catches or loopholes in the severing ritual. The words swim before my eyes, each line a potential trap, each phrase a possible pitfall.

Caine's restlessness breaks my concentration. He paces past me, his cane tapping a rhythmic beat on the polished floor. "Any progress?" he asks, peering over my shoulder at the sprawl of notes and open books.

I grunt in response, not looking up from the text. "Maybe. It's complex. The Dark Fae who created this spell was thorough."

"Thorough, how?" Caine presses, pulling up a chair beside me.

I finally look up, rubbing my tired eyes. "Every word is carefully chosen. There are layers upon layers of meaning. It's like trying to unravel a knot that keeps re-tying itself."

Caine nods, his expression grim. "But you can do it, right? Find a way to make it safe for Violet?"

I hesitate, choosing my words carefully. "Safe might be an overstatement. Less dangerous, perhaps. But I need more time."

He stares at me, a boring gaze that makes me look up. "What?"

"That right there is why you are the perfect man for the job."

"Meaning?"

"You choose your words with caution. You know how this game is played. I am blunt, maybe too blunt. I say what I mean, but you can do the dance of the wordsmith."

"Gee, thanks?" I grouse and go back to the book.

He chuckles and sits back, twirling his cane in agitation. I need to get him out of my hair, but he won't go unless I give him a reason to.

Tracing a line with my finger, I murmur. "The ritual calls for ‘the essence of twilight, caught between day and night.' That could mean a dozen different things, each with its own implications for the spell."

Caine leans in, squinting at the ornate script. "And if we choose wrong?"

"Best case? The spell fails. Worst case?" I shrug, not wanting to voice the myriad of horrific possibilities my Dark Fae imagination has conjured .

"Shit," Caine snaps. "This is a veritable nightmare."

I nod, turning the page. "No shit, and that's just one line. There are dozens more like it."

We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of the task hanging heavy in the air. Finally, I speak again. "I need to focus on this. Alone. Can you go gather some ingredients? We'll need them regardless of how we interpret the spell."

Caine raises an eyebrow. "What kind of ingredients?"

I scribble a list on a scrap of paper and hand it to him. "Start with these. They're common enough in the forest around MistHallow. Take Flint with you. Some of these plants can be temperamental."

Caine scans the list, his brow furrowing. "Moonflower petals? Frost-bitten oak leaves? What the hell is ‘shadow moss'?"

"Flint will know," I say, already turning back to the book. "Just be careful."

Caine stands, tucking the list into his pocket. "Right. We're on it. Don't do anything stupid while we're gone."

I smirk, not looking up. "Me? Never."

He snorts and rises. With a final tap of his cane, Caine leaves, and I'm alone again with the book. I take a deep breath, centring myself before diving back in.

The words seem to writhe on the page, each phrase a potential double-meaning, each instruction a possible trap. I read through the ritual once, twice, three times, each pass revealing new nuances and new pitfalls to avoid. The problem is, I can't even dissect it one line at a time. They all mesh together, and part of it on its own without another part is potential suicide.

"I hate my kind," I growl, slamming my fist on the book and then closing my eyes as I breathe in deeply. "Right, you fucking twat. Whoever you are, you are about to get your arse kicked by Thorne, son of Jerrod, grandson of Methryll. You want that, hmm? Or are you going to be amenable and help me the fuck out with this?"

I open my eyes and glance down, but the page remains the same.

I growl and hunch down, getting back to it the hard way.

The core of the spell is straightforward enough—a severing of magical ties, a breaking of bonds. But the Dark Fae who crafted it wove in layers of complexity, safeguards and loopholes that could turn the ritual from liberation to damnation with a single misstep.

It would help if I knew why. Why was this spell created, vengeance or love?

Or both ?

Shaking my head, I focus on a particularly tricky passage: "The blood of the bound, freely given, must mingle with the tears of the one who would set them free." On the surface, it seems simple enough. But I know my people. Nothing is ever that straightforward. The liberator could be literally any-fucking-one.

"Freely given," I mutter, tapping my pen against the table. "Does that mean Violet must offer her blood willingly? Or does it require blood to be given before the bond was formed? And whose tears? The caster's? Or someone else's?"

I make notes, jotting down possible interpretations and their implications. Each possibility branches out into a web of consequences, some benign, others potentially catastrophic. I have Venn diagrams within Venn diagrams, and it's giving me a fucking headache.

As the grandfather clock on this floor ticks away, my notes grow more extensive, covering sheet after sheet of paper with cramped writing and hurried diagrams.

The silence of the library is both a blessing and a curse. It allows me to concentrate, to delve deep into the intricacies of the spell without distraction. But it also leaves me alone with my thoughts, which increasingly turn to the gravity of what we're attempting.

I find myself pondering the nature of vampire bonds, the twisted symbiosis between sire and charge. It's a perversion of the natural order, a magical enslavement that goes against everything I believe in. But it's also an integral part of vampire society, a cornerstone of their power structure.

Breaking such a bond is not just dangerous, it's revolutionary. If we succeed, if we find a way to sever Violet's connection to Nathaniel without destroying her in the process, the implications could be far-reaching. Other vampires might seek to break their own bonds, upending centuries of tradition and hierarchy.

"Ah. I'm a fucking idiot," I murmur with a wicked smile. "And that is why this arsehole has made this so fucking complicated, so it can't be attempted and be successful. But then, why write the spell down in the first place?"

This could reshape the supernatural world in ways we can't even begin to predict if we get it right.

I turn my attention back to it, forcing myself to focus on the immediate problem at hand. The future can take care of itself. Right now, Violet needs our help, and I'm determined to give it to her.

As I delve deeper into the ritual, I begin to notice patterns in the language, subtle repetitions and echoes that might hold the key to unravelling its secrets. The Dark Fae who created this spell was clever, but they were still bound by the rules of magick, the fundamental laws that govern all supernatural beings, which means it's not black. That helps. A fucking lot. Knowing this means the spell isn't designed to kill. It is to help. Death is just a side effect if we royally screw it up.

I turn the page in my notebook and start mapping out these patterns, creating a complex web of interconnected phrases and concepts. It's like solving a puzzle where the pieces keep changing shape, but slowly, gradually, a picture begins to emerge.

The ritual, at its core, seems to revolve around the concept of choice. Free will. The power to determine one's own fate. It's a quintessentially Dark Fae preoccupation—we value our freedom above all else, even as we constantly scheme to limit the freedom of others, which again screams that this isn't black magick.

This realisation leads me down new avenues of interpretation. If choice is the central theme, then perhaps the "essence of twilight" isn't a physical substance at all, but a moment of decision, a turning point between two states of being.

Excitement builds as I follow this line of reasoning. It's dangerous to get too attached to any one interpretation—that's how mages get themselves killed or worse—but this feels right in a way that nothing else has so far.

I'm so engrossed in my work that I barely notice the passage of time.

My stomach growls, reminding me that I've neglected to eat since breakfast. I ignore it, too caught up in the flow of discovery to stop now. Food can wait. This can't.

It finally feels like the disparate pieces of the ritual are starting to come together, forming a coherent whole that's beautiful and utterly terrifying in its complexity.

The price of freedom, it seems, is high. The ritual demands not just physical components, but emotional and spiritual sacrifices as well. It will push Violet to her limits and force her to confront the darkest parts of herself and her relationship with Nathaniel.

But if she can endure it, if she can hold true to herself through the crucible of the ritual, she might emerge not just free of Nathaniel's influence, but stronger and more self-assured than ever before.

It's a gamble, of course. There's still so much we don't know, so many variables that could tip the balance between success and epic failure. But for the first time since we started down this path, I feel a glimmer of real hope.

The spell requires a physical representation of the bond to be broken. But what form does that take for a vampire's sire bond? A vial of Nathaniel's blood? A lock of his hair? Or something more esoteric, like a memory crystallised into physical form?

Then there's the matter of the ritual's timing. It must be performed at the exact moment of transition. Does Violet even know that? Does Nathaniel? Does anyone? Missing that moment by even a second could have dire consequences.

I make careful notes on all of these points, knowing that each detail could be the difference between success and failure. The stakes are too high for any mistakes or oversights.

As I work, I find myself thinking about Violet again—about her strength and determination to break free from Nathaniel's control. I admire her resilience, even as I worry about the toll this is taking on her.

I've seen the way she struggles, the pain and confusion in her eyes as she battles against the bond. It's a constant reminder of the urgency of our task. Every day that passes is another day she suffers, another day Nathaniel's influence seeps deeper into her being. Another day that he will come for her.

But I can't rush this. One misstep, one misinterpreted line in the ritual, and we could end up doing more harm than good. It's a delicate balance, and the pressure of it weighs heavily on me. But I also can't keep at it when exhaustion is dragging me under.

As I gather my notes, preparing to retire for a few hours of much-needed sleep, I make a silent vow. Whatever it takes, whatever the cost, we will break this bond. Violet will be free, and if Nathaniel dares to show his face at MistHallow, he'll learn firsthand why the Dark Fae are feared throughout the supernatural world because Violet is under our protection now.

Under my protection.

With that thought, I make my way out of the library. There's still much to do and many challenges to overcome. But for now, I allow myself a moment of cautious optimism.

We have a chance, and sometimes, in the world of magick and monsters, one shot is all you need.