The Dragon's Heart: Unspoken Passion-Chapter 102: Why Am I Hiding?

She spoke into the dark like someone tossing a stone into a still well. The old words came back to her trembling lips, each syllable awkward at first, then steadier as the memory uncoiled.

The cadence her mother had hummed in the chapel, the half-forgotten inflections Serenya had lent when she taught her to keep the rhythm. Ilaria folded the prayer around her like a shawl, feeling for the familiar scaffold of meaning that should hold whatever answered.

Breathe, she told herself, and the gallery listened.

The mark under her sleeve pulsed as if it recognized the sound, an answering throb that made the skin beneath her palm hum with warmth. She put air to the prayer, louder now, pressing the foreign syllables into the stone. The words rolled out and filled the Dawn Gallery, pooling at the base of the great glass wall and churning the shadow like wind on glass.

Silence came back, enormous and exacting.

Not a whisper. Not the small, sibilant eddy she had felt the first time. Not even the faint cold that used to creep along her arms when the Blithe tilted its attention toward her. The gallery did not breathe with her; the stones held their faces perfectly unreadable.

The Hallowbloom scent dulled until it was only perfume and nothing more. The mark beneath her palm stilled. The pulse that had been like a living thread loosened and fell slack. For a moment she did not know what to do with the absence, so she waited, counting heartbeats as if measure could coax response.

One, two... ten.

The silence fashioned itself into accusation.

She tried again.

Her voice was smaller the second time, more pleading than ritualized. She coaxed the words as if coaxing a frightened animal from under a low table. The syllables should have reached the same place they always had; they should have been caught and returned in some shape of warning. Instead the gallery swallowed them like the sea swallowing a gull’s cry.

Nothing.

Ilaria’s throat worked. The thought that rose like a bitter tide was immediate and ugly. Had she done it wrong? Was The Blithe choosing not to answer her? If yes, then why would it refuse?

She pressed her palm harder to the mark, as if contact could force a stubborn pulse. It lay cool beneath her fingers now, almost indifferent, but there was no hunger, no recognition... only the faint, ordinary heat of a living limb.

The sensation felt wrong in her bones, as if a language she had only half-learned had been erased just where she needed it most. Images from the dream crowded at the edges of her vision. To be refused now felt like a rebuke, or worse, like a silence that meant the warning had already been set in motion.

Why wasn’t it responding? Her mind spun. Had the priests’ sealing done more than clear the room of objects? Had it dampened the memory of the Blithe’s reach?

She had come willingly, offering herself to the unknown. Why then did the Blithe turn away? Its cruelty was a thing she had felt before. It had no reason to hide when she was bare and open to its call.

And then, without meaning to, her thoughts turned to Serenya. A gnawing uncertainty curled in her chest, tight and insistent though there was no immediate reason. Serenya had always been careful and unflinching in the face of shadows and spirits. And yet, a small, insistent knot of fear grew in Ilaria’s mind.

Perhaps she should write a letter to ask after her. To know that her sister was safe or... maybe she should return to Caelwyn for a short trip. A day, a few nights at most. Surely Levan would allow it, he understood caution as well as he did concern.

But even that thought spiraled quickly. What if she was too late? What if the supposed warning of the dream and the silence of the Blithe was tied to something she could not yet name? What if waiting even a few hours had already set events into motion she could not stop?

Ilaria’s palms clenched over the mark. The quiet gallery pressed around her like a weight, each shadow stretching longer, each silence heavier. Her mind raced faster than she could follow. Should she call again? Should she leave and fetch Serenya? Could she even trust her instincts, or was the Blithe twisting them, teasing her with half-truths?

The worry for her sister tangled with the fear of what was to come, the unknown that had refused her tonight and the pull of the mark beneath her sleeve. Her thoughts spun, refusing to settle.

And all the while, the gallery remained still, as if it were watching her struggle in the dark, holding its secrets close.

Ilaria blinked, forcing herself to breathe. She had been kneeling here too long, lost in the thrum of her own panic and the silence of the gallery. The stillness that had felt like pressure now felt like a more urgent warning, she had overstayed her welcome in a place she was never meant to linger.

A faint shuffle, too precise to be the echo of her own thoughts, made her head snap up. The corridor outside the gallery was no longer empty. Faint lantern light flickered along the polished stone, footsteps shuffled in patterns that suggested more than a casual patrol.

Her stomach lurched at the realization.

Oh no.

Oh no, Melyn must be freaking out right now.

Ilaria’s eyes darted around, heart thundering in her chest. She spotted a massive bronze sculpture of a winged guardian, easily tall enough to hide a person standing. Without thinking, she lunged toward it, pressing herself flat against the cool metal, one hand over her mouth, the other braced against the wall to steady her shaking legs.

She almost squeaked when she heard the door being opened. But the shadow of the sculpture swallowed her whole. Its wings stretched wide, the folds and creases forming natural alcoves that allowed her to tuck herself into the hollowed space behind the figure. The sheer size of it pressed her back into the dark.

Her cheeks burned as she realized the absurdity of her attempt. Here she was, a grown woman, hiding like a frightened child behind a statue, hoping the guards would see nothing more than empty shadows.

Footsteps echoed closer.

"Maybe we missed something," one guard muttered. "Check behind the big sculpture, just to be sure."

Ilaria froze, every muscle tightening. She could feel the sculpture’s cold surface pressing against her cheek, the metal faintly vibrating under the impact of the guards’ boots. Her pulse raced and she barely dared to breathe.

The second guard muttered, "No... nothing. Perhaps it was the wind again."

A tiny, relieved sigh threatened to escape her throat, and she pressed her hand harder over her mouth, stifling it. Her chest heaved, and she silently chastised herself for ever thinking sneaking away was a good idea.

The guards lingered a moment longer, sweeping their gaze around the gallery before stepping back. Ilaria stayed still for a heartbeat longer, willing the echoes of their movements to fade completely, before letting herself exhale in the safety of the bronze guardian’s shadow.

Her fingers traced the edges of the sculpture in an attempt to ground herself. Okay. That was... too close.

The absurdity of it made her shoulders shake. A quiet, guilty laugh escaped before she could stop it. She slumped herself flat against the wall, her mind spinning faster than her heart. Maybe she could slip back to her chamber before anyone noticed she had ever left.

And yet, even as the thought came, her mind would not let go of the mark. That tiny, insistent pulse beneath her sleeve, the reminder that The Blithe had chosen not to answer and the gnawing worry about Serenya all coiled together into something she could neither ignore nor escape.

Ilaria swallowed, letting the panic settle into determination. She had to get back before she was discovered, but she could not abandon the questions that had brought her here. Somehow, she needed to find the balance between hiding from the living and listening for the dead.

With a careful breath, she slid from behind the statue, keeping her body low, ears straining. Every shuffle of a foot, every rustle of silk from the corridor beyond made her heart leap.

She hugged the walls, pressing into shadows, trying to make herself smaller than she felt. Each step was measured, like a dance she had never learned but somehow remembered from a lifetime of hiding from the impossible.

A pillar here, a tapestry there. She used every bulge and contour of the hallway to obscure herself, and for a heartbeat, she felt victorious. Her venture was going perfectly. Her legs were steady, her breathing controlled, her plan flawless.

Just a little further... just to the corner...

And then...

A lantern swung wide from the corridor ahead. A guard’s eyes swept across the empty hallway, stopping almost directly where she pressed herself against the wall.

Oh no, oh no, no, no—

Ilaria’s eyes widened as she immediately ducked behind a protruding panel, nearly losing her balance. One small step, and she could have been discovered. Her stomach clenched, her pulse a deafening drum in her ears.

The guard grunted, turned, and muttered to his companion.

"...Probably just a draft," the guard said, eyes still flicking to where Ilaria cowered.

She exhaled silently, pressing herself flat against the wall until the men’s footsteps receded. Her limbs quivered, a shiver of relief and residual terror rolling through her.

Never again, she promised herself, never again.

She moved quickly but cautiously, hugging the shadows like a lifeline. Her confidence returned as she edged closer to the hallway exit.

She had almost made it, just a few more steps and she will—

She collided with a figure she did not expect.

"Princess!" The voice was sharp with just a hint of... exasperation. She looked up to see Melyn, arms crossed, eyes blazing under the lantern light.