Chapter 11 - Alone

Nothing will ever be the same again.

Shadows stir on the Hill, rain beats against the glass, and secrets begin to unravel. In this chapter, Alina faces her deepest isolation — and the pull of Breathnoir Hill grows impossible to resist. As the storm rages inside and out, the threads binding the mothers, Bridget, and the past begin to surface. This is the chapter where silence speaks, and the Hill makes its claim…

Alina had spent the entire day in her room after Bridget’s departure. Loneliness weighed heavily on her, her stomach knotted, her face blank as she stared through the rain-streaked window at the village below. The storm had begun during the night — a relentless downpour, violent with roaring thunder and blinding lightning. Mist pressed low and heavy, obscuring Breathnoir Hill from view. She had been gazing toward it all night, as if spellbound, unable to close her eyes. Sleep would not come.

By morning, the rain had only grown more furious, droplets hammering the glass like an impatient fist. She had not gone down to eat; when the landlady knocked to say breakfast was ready, Alina sent her away. Hunger gnawed at her, but she was numb to her body’s needs. Sleepless and empty, the room had grown timeless, airless. She opened the door once, but the corridor was dim and still, the scent of coal smoke lingering in the silence.

She tried to read, to divert her mind from the wheel that kept spinning: faces, facts, fragments from Aetheris. The lines blurred, the words slipped away, her thoughts dragging her back into the same unanswered questions. She tried to sleep again, but her dreams twisted into half-formed images of the Hill, ominous shadows standing at its crown. Even the ticking clock in the hall seemed to torment her, steady as a heartbeat — but not her own.

At some point she thought she heard footsteps in the corridor. Soft. Steady. Deliberate. She opened the door cautiously. Nothing — only darkness and the weak glow of the night-lamp, holding its fragile line against the shadows. For a heartbeat she thought she saw a figure at the far wall. She blinked, and it was gone. Breath catching, she closed the door, pressed her palm to her chest. Her heart was hammering. Every sound, every shadow felt like a threat. The little inn no longer felt safe.

With a sudden, desperate motion she threw on her coat and pushed open the inn’s front door.

The storm swallowed her whole. Rain stung her face, plastered her hair to her cheeks. The wind nearly wrenched the umbrella from her grasp. She stumbled forward, half-blinded — until she realized she was not choosing her path at all. It was the path pulling her forward, a force she did not have the strength to resist.

The Hill. She knew, even before she admitted it to herself. That was where she was going.

The way to Breathnoir Hill was treacherous, slick with mud that clung to her boots and tried to drag her down. Branches loomed like dark sentinels, clawing at her sleeves. She trudged on despite the dread twisting inside her, despite the cold rain seeping through her clothes.

Her thoughts clawed at her too.
Bridget. Why had she come only to leave? What loyalties divided her? And Mother? How much had she known, how much had she hidden? And Kaelan — who was he, truly?

She stopped halfway, breath ragged, chest burning. With a bitter laugh she cried out into the storm — a raw sound, quickly drowned by the gale. She felt mocked by it, as though the storm had its own cruel intelligence. Whispering her doubts back to her, feeding her fear.

The pull of the Hill grew stronger. She could feel it in her bones. It wanted her alone.

At last she reached the summit — and gasped. She had only seen the Hill in dreams. Now the Obsidian Circles loomed in reality, slick black giants shimmering with rain against the bruised sky. She laid a trembling hand against one stone, and for an instant thought she heard it hum, faint and resonant — as though acknowledging her.

The mist thickened. Shadows stirred within it. Two figures, half-formed, flickering in and out of sight like torn photographs. Voices carried through the storm:

“She’s not ready… The threads are fragile and have not aligned yet… If she awakens too soon—”

Heart hammering, Alina crouched behind the nearest stone. She knew this was not meant for her ears — yet some part of her wondered if this was why she had been drawn here.

Then silence.

One of the voices — colder, sharper — shifted. She saw the shadow turn as though sensing her. The wind caught his words: “Could it be… Alina? How? She is not supposed to—”

Panic surged. She tried to slip away but stumbled on a root. When she looked up again, the shadows had melted into the mist. Gone. As if they had never been there at all.

Bridget’s face was drawn, sleepless, as she stepped off the train. She had always hated the shudder and clatter of travel, and last night had given her no rest. In silence she rode a cab to Cedar Hall. Her mother would demand answers, and Bridget had none that could satisfy her.

Inside, the fragrance of jasmine tea filled the air. Lorianne poured with deliberate grace, the silence between them thick with accusation. Bridget lowered her gaze.

At last Lorianne spoke, voice calm but edged.
“I told you to keep her away from the Hill. She is not ready. And yet… you disobeyed. Who are you obeying, child?”

Bridget forced herself to remain composed.
“I did my best, Mother. I tried. But the pull of Aetheris is too strong.”

“Obviously, it was not your best.” The mask cracked; her tone turned sharp.

Bridget flinched. “I swear I— it’s just that he…” She stopped herself, too late.

Lorianne’s eyes narrowed, a glint of cold fire in them. And with it, an old memory surfaced — unbidden, unwelcome.

Twenty years ago. A corridor in the Watchers’ academy. She and Eleanor, still students, heading to Thread Magic 101. A boy passed: tall, arrogant, dazzling. Seniors’ President. Top student. He smiled at Eleanor, who blushed and ducked her head. Lorianne had smiled too — but he had turned away, indifferent.

Even now the memory stung. Why did it surface now? His shadow had lingered in their lives too long. And now, it seemed, it was drawing closer again.

She leaned toward her daughter, her voice a command.
“You are to cut off all ties with him. Don’t think you can deceive me. Do you understand?”

Eleanor paced her apartment, restless, sleepless. Alina’s awakening gnawed at her. The storm outside mirrored her turmoil, rain lashing against the glass.

Her thoughts strayed to her youth — and to him. Arrogant, charming, devastatingly magnetic. He had been the beginning of everything dark in her life: the betrayal, the fracture with Lorianne, the ruin of her own career. And yet she had loved him, blindly, fatally.

The doorbell rang. A boy handed her an envelope and vanished without a word.

Her breath caught when she saw the familiar handwriting. She tore it open.

The Hill is awake and calling. Do you remember? What will you do?

Her pulse thundered. There was no time to waste. She packed swiftly, locked the door behind her, and left for the station. She had to reach her daughter — whatever awaited her.

Alina descended the Hill in a daze. The storm was easing now, but her body trembled, soaked to the bone, streaked with mud. She could hardly trust what she had seen — shadows speaking words she was not meant to hear. Hallucinations? Mirages in the storm?

And yet.

Beneath her doubt, a truth pulsed steady in her veins. The Hill had claimed her. She whispered the words aloud, tasting their weight in the silence:

“Nothing will ever be the same again.”

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