The Kingdom of Versimoil-Chapter 60: Vivid Warning

The promise she had made sat heavy in her chest. She was to meet Elowyn again—not for lessons in magic or control, but for something different. To learn how to touch the vision when it came again... and to return from it. But unexpectedly, she had been summoned by Lady Cassia. Elowyn had allowed it—no, had insisted—that she obey Cassia’s call, to read and observe even the unsaid and unseen with vigilance.

The afternoon light had turned molten by the time Anneliese crossed the marble bridge leading to the west tower. She followed the servant who had come to summon her, her steps careful against the sun-warmed stone. Though it had been weeks since her arrival in the castle, she still did not know its paths or turns—the endless corridors, hidden stairways, and mirrored halls that seemed to shift with the hours.

She had not yet seen all of Versimoil Castle—partly because time never allowed it, and partly because her mind was too entangled in the spiral her life had taken since the day she found the Book of Spells in Mr. Herondale’s shop.

A part of her still wished she had never come across it—that she had left it to gather dust on the shelf, untouched and forgotten. Her life would have remained small, quiet, peaceful. Yet another part of her—stubborn and restless—refused to regret it. Because somewhere beneath the fear and uncertainty, she wanted to believe she had found it for a reason. That perhaps fate had chosen her, not by mistake, but by necessity.

The corridors of Versimoil were louder than usual. Guards bowed as she passed, their faces unreadable, their eyes shadowed beneath the strain of endless work. Servants hurried along the lower walkways, carrying bolts of silk, trays of glass ornaments, and gilded candlesticks—all at Lady Cassia’s command.

Perhaps she had already begun preparing for the ball, though it was still eight days away. Maybe it’s because it’s her daughter’s birthday. Or perhaps this was simply how things were done here—planned, perfect, and watched. Anneliese thought.

The castle pulsed with motion, but beneath the noise, something else stirred: a current she could not name.

She could feel it in the air—the quiet strain of preparation, the whispers of nobles who would arrive a day before the ball, and the faint echo of her own name carried somewhere. Anneliese Levine. The sound of it had begun to travel through corridors, soft and deliberate, never loud but never unnoticed.

She tried not to linger on it as she followed the servant up the curved staircase leading to the upper terrace. The wind tugged faintly at her hair, carrying with it the distant toll of the clocktower—three chimes. Time moved differently here; even peace felt like waiting.

Elowyn had told her to rest after their morning training, but rest was the last thing her mind would allow. The lessons, the visions, the witches, the shadow—everything blurred into a single thread pulling her toward something she did not yet understand.

As she reached the final step, she paused. Lady Cassia was nowhere to be seen.

The servant bowed before she could ask. "Milady, Lady Cassia will arrive shortly," he said, gesturing toward the shaded seating area. "Please wait until then. Refreshments will be brought soon."

Anneliese inclined her head in thanks. As the servant retreated, silence reclaimed the terrace.

Instead of sitting, she drifted toward the marble railing. Passing the carved couches and low table, she moved to the edge and looked down.

Below, the courtyard bloomed with movement: tapestries unfurled, lanterns hung from carved stone arches, and servants arranged dark crimson banners bearing Versimoil’s crest—a black sun ringed in silver flame. The entire scene shimmered under the afternoon light, beautiful and ordered, yet strangely suffocating.

The kingdom was preparing to celebrate. And yet, even celebration felt like strategy. From above, it almost looked like the castle itself was holding its breath. And as Anneliese watched, she couldn’t shake the feeling that this gathering—this ball—would not simply be a celebration.

"Quite the view," a voice said behind her.

Anneliese turned, pulse catching. Atticus stood by the archway, hands in his pockets, posture composed, but his grey eyes caught the light, gleaming faintly. The sun brushed against the pale strands of his hair, turning them almost silver.

"Yes," she replied quietly, though confusion flickered in her eyes. Wasn’t I called by Lady Cassia? What is he doing here?

His lips curved—not quite amusement, but something close. "My mother is preparing for the ball. You must have guessed by the chaos already. Roslin is very dear to her, but she is this efficient, this precise, with every gathering the castle hosts. You’ll grow used to it."

"I see." Anneliese brushed a loose strand of hair from her face as the wind lifted it. "It seems she doesn’t miss a detail."

"She never does." Something unspoken laced his tone—a quiet warning, veiled but deliberate. His expression remained calm, but a faint shadow flickered through his eyes. "My mother is always planning something."

Anneliese held his gaze. Though his words spoke of celebrations, something in his tone did not sit right. She searched for the meaning behind them, but his face revealed nothing.

The breeze stirred again, carrying the mingled scent of roses and metal. Two servants appeared then, balancing silver trays—one tray bearing three goblets filled with dark red and sunset-orange liquid, the other piled with delicate pastries and spiced delicacies. For a moment, neither she nor Atticus spoke as the servants set the trays upon the table, bowed in perfect unison, and slipped away.

From below drifted the faintest sound of laughter of the servants—the hum of ordinary life that somehow felt fragile, temporary.

Anneliese broke the silence first. "The servant said I was called by Lady Cassia."

He met her eyes, reading the unspoken question there. "Yes," he said after a brief pause. "I was with her when she sent for you." Crossing the seating area, he stopped beside her at the terrace’s edge, his gaze settling on the courtyard below. "Something must have drawn her attention. As you can see, the preparations have already begun. She will be here soon."

Anneliese inclined her head in acknowledgment, her gaze drifting over the movement below. Servants scurried like threads weaving a grand tapestry, each one purposeful, precise.

"You seem restless," Atticus said at last, his tone even—unreadable, though not unkind. "Does Versimoil’s peace bore you already?"

Anneliese did not answer right away. The peace of Versimoil, she thought, was never truly peace. Her fingers traced the edge of the marble railing, cool and smooth beneath her skin. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above the wind. "It’s... different here. Too quiet, sometimes."

Atticus’s mouth curved faintly—though the expression felt more like a warning than a smile. "Quiet doesn’t always mean safe."

Her gaze flicked to him, but he was still looking out over the courtyard. The sunlight caught in his hair again—that strange pale gold that seemed to waver between warmth and steel.

"What do you mean?" she asked softly.

He didn’t respond at once. A heartbeat passed, then another, before he spoke—his tone low, deliberate. "My mother believes peace must be crafted, not found. It’s why she plans, why she hosts, why she watches." He glanced toward her then, eyes sharp beneath the calm. "Every celebration in Versimoil has purpose, whether anyone admits it or not."

Anneliese felt a faint prickle of unease beneath her ribs. "And this one?"

He looked away. "This one is to find a suitable suitor for Roslin—one that might also benefit Versimoil in certain ways." Something flickered across his expression then—gone before she could name it.

Anneliese could tell it was only a half-truth. A hush settled between them, the kind that didn’t feel empty but waiting. Below, the banners caught the wind, silver threads glinting like distant lightning.

Before either of them could speak again, a soft rustle broke the stillness—the click of heels on stone, the whisper of silk brushing marble, and the faint fragrance of rare orchids winding through the breeze.

Lady Cassia appeared in the archway, every inch of her presence rigid and composed. A gown of muted gold fell in perfect lines around her frame, and the light itself seemed to bend to her will as she approached.

"Anneliese," Cassia said, her smile gracious, eyes bright. "I hope my son has been keeping you from boredom."

Atticus inclined his head slightly. "Merely conversation, Mother."

Cassia’s gaze lingered between them for a beat longer than necessary—assessing, calculating.

Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes when it turned to Anneliese. "My apologies for the delay, dear. Preparations have a way of... consuming one’s attention."

"That’s understandable. Please do not apologize," Anneliese replied, though something in Cassia’s tone—in the poised stillness of her hands—set her heart drumming faster.

"There is something I wish to discuss with you," Cassia said.

He murmured only for Ann to hear. "Try not to let the West Tower swallow you whole." And then he was gone, leaving only the faint scent of cologne and the echo of his words behind.