Whispers In the Deep

(Paige’s POV)

Down the path goes Beatrice, light bobbing above her palm, stretching wavy dark shapes along jagged rock. Behind me comes Gregor, heavy and quiet, like a wall that walks. Each foot forward brings chill deeper into the bones, the smell of soaked ground, old and slow.

Night swallows the sky, no moon in sight. Roses and hedges twist into shadowy figures, still but watchful. Green glow seeps from above, yet shadows grow thicker because of it. Walking toward the weeping willows feels less like moving forward and more like slipping beneath the surface.

A beat pounds inside me like wings too fast to count, yet thoughts move clear and slow. Here we are now. That narrow gap appears ahead. A place she guards because it frightens her deeply. Maybe where I stop walking altogether.

A shape crouches in front of us, low and watchful. From within, darkness spills out, thick enough to drown the glow we carry. Cold air drags that scent into my nose - rot held frozen for years, now breathing again.

Breath held, Beatrice says go inside, words edged with wait.

Over the line I go. That moment burns - her palm striking, sharp and sudden - but I bury it deep. New reasons guide me forward now.

Down we go, me and Beatrice, while Gregor blocks the door like a wall made of flesh. Stone underfoot slicks with damp, each step unsure. Cold punches the breath right out of me. Light bounces - blue-white - from the orb, catching wet trails on stone that crawl like veins. Under all this, there's sound: water touching rock, again and again.

Beneath us lies a round chamber, headroom tight. The roof hangs close above our heads. In the center sits still water, dark and cold, about waist-deep. Water seeps in through hidden cracks below ground. Around its border runs a slim strip of rock - just wide enough to stand on. Stillness holds the surface tight. Glass-like, it mimics black stone without a crack.

This spot - right here - is where she dropped, Beatrice murmurs, awe coloring her words instead of dread. Her finger moves toward the middle of the water's surface. Sound built up around that place, thick and repeating. Visions arrived inside the noise, revealing loops, returning shapes

She turns to me, her eyes reflecting the orb’s eerie glow. “Sit. On the ledge. Put your hands in the water. And listen.”

Here it is. Not up for debate. Carved into routine like stone.

Down I go, onto the damp stone, its cold biting right away. Through the thin wool of my clothes, the freezing air pushes in. My eyes fix on the dark water, still and deep. In that shadowed pool, hidden somewhere, lies my mother’s hairpin. Not much - just a small metal thing - but real, unlike everything else.

Beads of silence hang between us when I turn to look at her. Her eyes stay locked on mine - sharp, unblinking. Pretense won’t survive that kind of attention. Empty gestures? They’d be pointless. A weak act wouldn’t fool her for a second.

Something true is what she needs from me.

A deep chill moves through me, so heavy it feels like stone. The quiet presses down without break. Something here is deeply off. Then comes darkness behind my eyelids.

Sound doesn’t echo from old times, not for me. My ears stay tuned to one presence only.

Maybe it's Noah I remember now. Sometimes a name just comes back like that.

The real person, not the title. Forget the plans he made. Look at who stood there.

Frozen in that moment, I remember how he stood - dust on his skin, shoulders low from sleepless hours, gaze resting on me as I calmed a wailing boy. Sunlight slipped through the smoke, painting his dark hair with streaks like wet ink. His usual guarded face had softened; something gentle flickered behind those hazel eyes, a rare thing outside palace walls.

Sometimes, just seeing him feels like too much, sharp and bright behind my eyes. That moment stays warm under my skin, even now, cutting through cold rooms. His jaw - hard most days - went soft then, quiet. A full bottom lip caught me off guard, something I hadn’t noticed before. When he turned to me, those wide shoulders dipped slightly, like carrying less weight suddenly, like rest had shown up unannounced.

Sound drifts into the air. Beatrice speaks, her words slicing quiet like metal through fog.

My eyelids stay shut. That sound - it isn’t soft or faint. I say so, shaky. Loud enough to know it means something

“What does it say?”

I let the warmth of the memory fill my words, making them seem otherworldly. “It says… ‘She stands in the sun, and she is not afraid of the shadows. She makes the shadows seem… quiet.’”

That wasn’t his words. Yet my skin knew it, in the quiet times. Real enough - just not what she searches for.

Beatrice is silent for a long moment. “Is it a past voice? Or a future one?”

Fingers stretch forward, careful, cutting through the dark water's skin. Cold hits like a shout, sharp, mean. Air vanishes from my lungs. Hands sink deeper, swallowed by chill, scraping over hidden rock below. Hunting.

Shaking, I speak into the silence. That sound never stops. Cold bites hard. Fear sits heavy. I take what it gives me. Not part of any pattern. Beyond time. Held fast by something deeper

The air shifts when she whispers it - her voice barely there. Her dress brushes the floor while she lowers herself next to me. A pause hangs before she asks what the anchor is after

A whisper runs through me when touch meets that curve. Not rock. Thin, slick, icy. Breath catches. Grip tightens without thought - there, beneath water, known by feel alone: her pin, the delicate flower twist she wore in her hair.

I have it.

A fire wakes up inside me, sharp and wild. Cold dread cracks apart under its heat. Out comes my arm, dripping, fingers curled hard around the metal piece. My palm holds it close, pressed where no one can see.

Eyes lifting, I shift toward Beatrice. Close - too close - the glow of the orb climbs up her skin from beneath. That strange brightness makes her seem old, worn thin. What was soft now feels sharp, hunger carved into every line.

“The anchor,” I say, my voice gaining strength, “doesn’t want. He chooses. He chose to protect a liability. He chose to kiss a mistake. He chooses, every day, to be more than a storm or an earthquake. He chooses to be a man.”

Her expression tightens. “His choices are deviations. Errors in the code.”

“He’s not a code!” The words burst from me, echoing in the chamber. “He’s real. He’s flesh and blood and heat. He’s the feel of his heartbeat under my cheek when he held me after the raid. He’s the scent of sandalwood and winter air that clings to his skin. He’s the taste of him - of mint and something dark and sweet, like courage.”

Out of nowhere, I start telling her about him. Words spill out, brighter than painted scenes ever could. His face appears behind my eyelids - how the edges of his eyes fold when real laughter hits, something hardly ever seen. Notice how his neck shifts each time he gulps, solid and steady. That look he gives, sharp enough to pull all air from a space, leaving just me standing there, everywhere.

“He is the most real thing in this world you’re trying to control,” I press on, my voice low and fierce. “And you’re terrified of him. Because he can’t be archived. He can’t be plotted on your charts. He sees me, not a role. And that broke your precious narrative.”

Beatrice’s composure shatters.

Her hand flies out, not to slap me, but to grip my jaw, her fingers digging in painfully. “You sentimental fool! That ‘realness’ is the infection! He is a cancer in the story, and you are the carrier! The voices will tell me how to cut him out!”

Her hands tremble. Not from cold. From anger that burns low. Fear creeps in at the edges. Words slip away like sand through fingers. Her voice cracks under pressure. Control fades - line by line, breath by breath.

Her fingers press hard against my face, holding me still. My teeth hurt from the pressure. Yet I stay focused on her eyes. She watches everything cross my expression - resistance first, then care, finally unwavering sureness.

“The only voice here,” I whisper, “is yours. And it’s the voice of someone who’s spent so long reading stories, she’s forgotten how to live one.”

A moment passes where her fingers twitch near my shoulder. The look in her eyes suggests something reckless, maybe even cruel.

A noise arrives first - distant, softened by layers of rock and soil pressing down from high up.

A loud clang echoes far away. Metal strikes metal out of sight.

A cry rang out. It was Gregor yelling, sudden fear in his tone - then nothing. His sound stopped too fast.

A crack echoes through the air. Sharp pieces fly apart. The noise cuts deep into silence.

Thud after thud. From up high, deep sounds rushed downward - hard boots on ancient rock, closing in without pause.

A sudden noise pulls Beatrice’s head sideways, her hold slipping as surprise takes over.

Breath gone. A wild pulse hammers deep, lit by something I never saw coming.

Fear lives in that noise. The beat of it - wild, unstoppable - rings familiar. A storm I’ve heard before.

Footsteps echo down, stopping at the last step.

A sudden glow spills into the room, warm like sunrise. Out comes brightness, heavy and amber, pushing back the sickly tint left by the sphere. Shadows shrink where it touches. The air feels different now - clearer. Torch flame dances on stone walls that were dull just moments before. What was murky turns sharp, edged in flickering gold.

Looming in the curved doorway, coated in grime and half-hidden by dim light, Noah Wingknight appears - fury humming around him like a live wire. He does not move, yet the space trembles.

Faint light catches his gaze before it reaches me. Not like I remember - never gentle with curiosity, never holding back a smile.

Their color sits like frost that bites, sharp and cobalt. Blue takes over, cold and still.

They’re what I’ve looked at that took my breath away more than anything else.