Chapter 18: Ivy

Chapter

Eighteen

IVY

T he train lurches slightly as it begins to slow, jolting me out of my anxious thoughts. I move closer to the window, drinking in the sight of our mysterious destination coming into view.

Pristine white stone stretches as far as I can see, the buildings rising like ivory towers against a backdrop of impossibly blue sky. The structures are unlike anything I've ever encountered. All graceful arches and shining glass and delicate spires that seem to defy gravity. Intricate gold filigree adorns every surface, catching the sunlight and making the whole city shimmer like a mirage against the crystal-clear lake spreading out toward the horizon.

It takes me a moment to realize the entire city is built into the side of a cliff jutting up from the edge of the lake. No wonder it's all white stone. The equally pristine shoreline is dotted with lush gardens bursting with vibrant flowers I've never seen before. The contrast of the colorful blooms against the stark white stone is breathtaking.

"Holy shit," Whiskey breathes beside me.

I nod mutely. I can't tear my eyes away from the gleaming white city sprawling before us, a stark contrast to the harsh world we left behind. The delicate spires and graceful arches look like something out of a fairy tale, not the brutal reality I've come to expect. It's beautiful.

Too beautiful.

My fingers tighten on the plush fabric of my borrowed robe as an uneasy feeling settles in my gut. Nothing this perfect comes without a price. I've learned that lesson the hard way, over and over again.

The compartment door slides open with a soft hiss, and I turn to see Wraith's massive frame filling the doorway. He's wrapped a pristine white scarf around the scarred lower half of his face, his blue eyes brightening when our gazes meet in spite of the stressful circumstances. He moves into the compartment with that fluid predatory grace that never fails to amaze me, given his size.

"Is Plague…?" I begin to ask.

He doesn't need to respond. Plague slips in behind him a moment later, unable to meet my gaze.

He looks... lost.

Haunted in a way I've never seen before.

My heart aches at the sight of this alpha— my alpha—in visible emotional pain, even as alarm bells start ringing in the back of my mind.

What the hell is going on?

I follow him across the train car, close enough I can feel the heat radiating from his body. For a long moment, neither of us speaks. I watch his reflection in the glass as he stares out the window at the white city, taking in the tight set of his jaw, the shadows under his eyes.

"It's beautiful," I say softly.

Plague's lips curve into a bitter smile. "It is."

I want to ask him what he means, to demand answers about what's really going on. But the lost look in his eyes stops me. Whatever secrets he's keeping, whatever burden he's carrying... I can tell from the tension radiating off him in waves that he isn't ready to talk about it.

Not yet.

Instead, I reach out hesitantly and take his hand in mine. His skin is cool and dry, and he stiffens at the contact. For a moment, I think he's going to pull away.

But then his fingers curl around mine, squeezing gently.

I look up, startled by the intensity in his gaze as he stares down at me. The sharp planes of his face have softened somehow. His eyes, usually cold and flinty, are warm despite the sadness there.

"Ivy," he murmurs, his voice rougher than usual. "I..."

He trails off, clearly struggling to find the words. I squeeze his hand again, offering what comfort I can. "It's okay," I tell him, even though I'm not sure it is. "Whatever's going on, whatever you're dealing with... we're here. I'm here."

Plague's eyes widen fractionally. Hope? But before he can respond, Thane's deep voice cuts through the moment.

"We need to get ready," he says, his tone clipped. "They'll be coming for us soon."

"Hopefully not our heads," Whiskey says with a snort.

Reality crashes back in, and Plague lets go of my hand. He takes a step back, that familiar mask of cool detachment sliding back into place as he glares at Whiskey.

My hand feels empty where his just was.

The train comes to a complete stop with a soft hiss of hydraulics. For a moment, we all stand frozen, exchanging wary glances.

Then the door to our compartment slides open with a soft hiss, making me jump. The attendant who greeted us earlier steps into our compartment, her beaded veil swaying.

"We have arrived," she says, her voice musical despite its formality. Her tone is stiffer than before. "If you'll follow me, please."

I glance at Plague again, but he's staring straight ahead, his expression unreadable. The rest of the alphas fall into formation around me as we follow the attendant through the train's narrow corridor.

My alphas close ranks around me as we follow the attendant out into the hall. Wraith's massive frame looms to my right while Thane takes up position on my left, their bodies casting twin shadows over me. Plague and Whiskey fall in behind, and even Valek—still swaying slightly—moves to flank us, his silver eyes less hazy than they were a few minutes ago.

The attendant leads us through the train's ornate corridor, her flowing white robes whispering against the plush carpet. The morning sunlight streaming through the windows catches on the golden beads adorning her veil, sending prismatic sparkles dancing across the polished wood panels.

As we step onto the platform, the full grandeur of Surhiira takes my breath away. The white stone city rises before us like something out of a dream, its delicate spires piercing an impossibly blue sky. The pristine marble beneath my feet is inlaid with veins of gold that pulse with a subtle luminescence, as if the very stone is alive with captured sunlight.

"Stay close," Thane murmurs, his hand coming to rest protectively on my lower back.

I don't need to be told twice. The beauty surrounding us only makes me more wary. Everything here feels too perfect, too precise.

Like a gilded trap waiting to spring shut.

More white-robed figures glide past us, their faces obscured by veils and scarves that ripple in the warm breeze coming off the lake. The air here smells different. Clean and sweet. It's nothing like the harsh chemical tang of Reinmich or the acrid smoke of the Outer Reaches.

Wraith growls softly beside me, his borrowed white scarf doing little to muffle the sound. I glance up to see his blue eyes fixed on a group of guards positioned along the platform's edge. Their pristine white uniforms are immaculate, but I notice the way their hands rest casually on the ornate hilts of curved swords at their hips. The weapons look ceremonial, all gleaming gold and precious stones, but something tells me they're as deadly as they are beautiful.

They don't seem to have noticed us. I'm getting the impression there isn't much of a sense of danger here. It's clear this glimmering city has never seen a bomb.

"This way, please," our attendant says, gesturing toward a set of sweeping stairs that seem to float unsupported from the platform's edge. The steps are carved from the same white stone as everything else, but they're shot through with threads of mother-of-pearl that catch the light like frozen lightning.

Plague's shoulders tense as we approach the stairs. Something about his posture sets off warning bells in my head.

He knows this place.

Knows it intimately, if I'm reading him right.

The thought sends a chill down my spine despite the warm air.

"You good, Doc?" Whiskey asks, his voice pitched low. "Looking a little pale there."

Plague ignores him pointedly.

Whiskey frowns. I can tell he's as concerned for Plague as I am, beneath the usual bravado and bluster.

We descend the floating stairs in tight formation, my alphas moving with practiced precision to keep me shielded from all angles. The lake stretches out below us, its surface so still and clear it looks like polished glass. Schools of silver fish dart beneath the surface, their scales flashing like coins in the morning light.

"It's like a dream, isn't it?" Valek slurs beside me.

For once, I agree with him. Everything here has an otherworldly quality that makes me feel like I'm walking through a painting rather than a real city. Even the air seems to shimmer with magic.

The stairs end at a broad promenade that winds along the lakeshore. More gardens bloom here, but these are different from the hanging varieties above. Delicate trees with crystalline leaves cast rainbow-dappled shadows across our path. Flowers that look like they're made of spun glass chime softly in the breeze, their bell-shaped blooms releasing puffs of iridescent pollen that dance through the air like fairy lights.

A courtyard of white marble sprawls before us, delicate white spires rising up on either side. At the other end of the courtyard stands a palace that seems to defy gravity, its gleaming towers and graceful arches floating impossibly above a series of cascading pools. The water flowing down catches the light, making it look like liquid diamonds are spilling from level to level.

My bare feet barely make a sound on the pristine marble and my robe swishes around my ankles as our attendant leads us across the sprawling courtyard toward the impossible palace. The alphas' boots echo softly, the sound bouncing off the towering white spires on either side of us.

I can't shake the feeling we're being herded.

Like prey being guided into a trap.

My eyes dart around, cataloging every detail, every possible escape route. Old habits die hard. The Refinement Center taught me well—though probably not in the way they intended. Years of fighting for survival have honed my instincts to a razor's edge.

The ornate archways lining the courtyard could provide cover, but they're too exposed. The cascading pools might offer a path down to the lake, but the water's probably shallow and breaking a leg would make escape impossible. The slender, knobby trunks of the crystalline willows would be perfect for climbing, but their delicate branches would never hold my weight.

My gaze drifts up to the palace looming before us. More impossible arches and floating towers rise into the cloudless blue sky. No visible supports. No way to scale those smooth white walls. The only way in or out seems to be through the grand entrance we're approaching.

A bottleneck if I've ever seen one.

We're being funneled.

Contained.

Trapped .

Wraith's chest rumbles as if he senses my unease. His familiar leather and woodsy rain scent helps ground me, but it's not enough to silence the warning bells screaming in my head.

Are we about to have the fight of our lives?

More white-robed figures drift past us, their faces hidden behind veils and scarves that catch the light. They move with such fluid grace it's almost unsettling. Like they're floating rather than walking. Their covered faces all turn to watch us pass, and I can feel the weight of countless hidden eyes.

Judging.

Assessing.

Calculating.

Then shock flashes in their eyes and they hastily bow.

Why?

I instinctively press closer to my alphas as we approach the palace entrance. An archway of pure white stone stretches above us, delicate gold filigree catching the morning light. The designs tell stories I can't read. Birds in flight, blooming flowers, and what looks like ancient script flowing across the stone like frozen music.

But what catches my attention are the guards.

They line the walls at regular intervals, still as statues in their pristine white uniforms. Their curved swords gleam at their hips, hilts studded with precious stones that catch the light like captured stars. They don't move as we pass, but I can feel their focus shift to track our movement.

My mind automatically starts calculating odds. Twenty guards that I can see. Probably more hidden in the shadows above.

All armed.

All trained.

All ready to spring into action at a moment's notice.

Plague's shoulders are rigid with tension as he walks beside me. His usual mask of clinical detachment is cracking around the edges. He knows something. Something about this place. Something that has him more on edge than I've ever seen him.

It just makes me more nervous.

The only thing that grounds me is that I trust him.

I shouldn't, and I'm angry with myself over it.

But I do.

Then one of the guards glances at us.

Surprise, shock, and recognition all flicker at once in his gaze and a murmur passes through the guards that sets off a domino effect. They all bow deeply at once, the swords at their sides clinking with the graceful movement.

Beside me, Whiskey stumbles to a stop and practically folds himself in half, bowing so quickly I'm afraid he's going to fall over. The others follow suit, even Thane's powerful frame bending in a show of respect. To my surprise, Wraith's massive bulk dips as well, though his hand comes up to keep his scarf firmly in place, his blue gaze flicking between the guards. I'm sure he's assessing them, too.

What is happening?

Plague is the only one standing straight and tall, his jaw clenched as he stares ahead. He catches me staring and shoots Whiskey an annoyed look, like the other alpha's display of deference is somehow embarrassing.

Before I can process anything, movement at the palace entrance draws my attention. My breath catches in my throat as an older omega glides toward us, her presence commanding every eye in the courtyard.

She's breathtaking.

Her white robes flow around her like liquid moonlight, adorned with intricate golden embroidery that seems to move of its own accord. A crown of gold and pearls rests on her gray hair, the delicate metalwork forming the shape of lotus blossoms and ibis wings. Her gilded veil—adorned in the same rainbow of gemstones encrusted on the hilt of the long, curved sword at her hip—shifts and twinkles beneath high cheekbones.

A queen.

An omega is the queen.

My heart leaps into my throat as Plague walks forward. The queen stops moving and watches him, her expression unreadable, as Plague drops to his knees before her and bows his head, his dark hair falling forward over his face. The motion is so fluid, so practiced, like muscle memory taking over. His hands rest palm-up on his thighs, completely exposed and vulnerable.

Defenseless.

No.

No.

He's offering his head.

Presenting his neck for execution.

"Don't!" The cry tears from my throat and I run toward them without a second thought.

"Plague, you fucking dumbass!" Whiskey bellows, lunging. For a moment, I think he's going to try to stop me. Then he overtakes me, charging at them like a freight train.

Guards leap forward, blocking us with drawn swords. Whiskey snarls, getting between them and me protectively as the other Ghosts surround me, too. All ready to fight to the death.

But the queen doesn't react to us.

She doesn't draw her sword, either.

Instead, she reaches out with impossible grace, her bejeweled fingers catching Plague's chin. She tilts his face up with excruciating gentleness, her thumb stroking his cheek in a tender caress.

I freeze mid-step, my heart stuttering to a stop as I watch the queen's severe expression transform. The change is subtle, just a slight softening around her pale blue eyes as they land on Plague. A flash of anger, and then…

Longing.

Love.

The pieces click into place with dizzying speed as she speaks, her musical voice thick with emotion.

"Welcome home, Prince Hamsa."