Chapter 25: What CHAOS Means

Sienna

We arrived… but not as we left.
There are no cheers. No hugs. Only silence. A silence so thick it seems to bite at the edges of words. The blood on our clothes has dried, but not in our memories. Not in our souls.

The castle opens its doors to us with living solemnity. The roots breathe. The walls curve as we pass. Everything is organic, sacred… and strange.

—Go to the healer —says Bastian, his voice low and dry—. We'll meet later in the main hall. There are decisions to make.

I only nod. I don’t have the strength to argue.

Astrid stays behind, laughing with some soldiers, telling her version of the disaster as if it were a glorious show. She doesn’t look that hurt. I, on the other hand, feel like my skin is a walking scab.

My steps lead me to the basement, where the air is denser, filled with resin and something ancient. That’s where the healer’s chamber lies.

He’s the same. He’ll always be the same. We lock eyes —he and I hold secrets I try to forget, pains I want to erase, but my skin refuses.

White robe… purity? I doubt it. Silent, like everything he hides. And that raven mask. Black, long, expressionless. He watches me with those pupil-less eyes, as if he could see beyond my flesh.

—Sienna —he says, his slow voice echoing off the living walls.

I nod. Barely.

I sit, though everything hurts. The bench is made of intertwined roots that mold to my body.

He stares. Motionless. I feel stripped by his silence.

—Undo the leather —he says.

I obey. My hand trembles. The brush of fabric burns. My skin is bruised, swollen, torn in places. His eyes, hidden behind the mask, feel even more fixed.

—Some pains can’t be healed or erased —he says while preparing an ointment—. Your body is just a map of what bleeds inside your soul, Sienna.

And then he does it. He places his hand on my side… without warning, and everything collapses.

I don’t scream. I don’t cry. I don’t move. I simply dissolve while my body remains seated before him. But I… I’m there again.

In the cabin.
Where the air was a knife.
Where the wood creaked beneath my back.
Where his breath was gasoline and I was ash.

I feel his hands closing around my throat.
I feel my knees fighting to push him away.
I feel his weight.
I feel his laughter.
I feel his hatred.
I feel…

Everything.

I drown in images, in sensations I want to tear out of myself. In the middle of it all, a silent scream escapes my mind, and I hear myself muttering as if that could glue my soul and body back together:

—I lived… he died… I won… he lost… I lived…

—Sienna —says the healer, his voice no longer calm.

I don’t breathe. I don’t blink. My body is a sealed prison.

—Come back, Sienna —he insists, firmer—. It’s only your mind. You’re not there. You’re here. With me.

His hand rises to my forehead. His fingers, cold at first, become warm. An invisible, dense energy pushes through my chest.

A wordless whisper feels like a spark pulling me back.

I gasp. As if reborn.

Panting, my instinct is to cover my mouth. I feel saliva mixed with tears I don’t remember shedding.

I’m here.
I’m here.
I’m…

—I’m sorry —I whisper—. I’m tired. I haven’t slept. I… I just can’t.

—That wound —he says, watching me without moving— isn’t in your ribs.

I nod.
I lower my gaze. I’m broken, and he knows it —because he was the witness to this pain.

—You need to speak, Sienna. Destiny doesn’t wait for those who remain silent. Hidden truths rot too, and it’ll hurt even more because your silence will break her harder than it’s breaking you.

—No. I did this to protect her, and I’ll keep doing it, even if it consumes me.

He takes a cloth. Cleans my wounds with a warm mixture that smells of damp earth and eucalyptus. I shiver.

—Do you know anything about our prophecies? Have they told you the full versions?

—No —I reply, still trembling.

He closes his eyes. And then… he sings. Because he doesn’t just say it. He sings it. As if the earth were speaking through his voice:

When the root no longer holds,
and the water no longer heals,
when fire fails to cleanse,
and wind no longer wishes to fly...
Nature will weep.
The balance will be lost.
Power will corrupt.
Two nymphs will be born,
draped in garments of virtue,
one will bring the new era,
the other… will poison it.
One will be flame,
the other, darkness.
Together, chaos.
Together, truth.
Beauty will die,
sweetness will sour.
Because to rise,
one must first burn.

—What… does that mean? —I ask.

—What it must mean —he replies, and though he wears a mask, I can see the sadness in his smile—. What you’re not ready to understand yet. What no one dares to see.