CHAPTER 52: GRIP OF IRON

The world was drowned in cloud and moonlight.

The moon was deep blood-red, hung low above an ocean of dark mist. The air was ash-thick, swallowing the jagged peaks that rose like broken fangs around a lone fortress, veiled and half-hidden within the swirl of churning black clouds, like a shadow carved from hell itself. Its towers were slick with shadow, their edges lit by a dull, hellish glow. Lanterns were cut into the ribs of the dark, their lamps guttering to a stubborn glow that would not be called flame. The wind howled through fractured stone and iron spires, yet inside, the silence pressed like a weight.

Anneliese knelt on a floor of cold stone and dust, knees pressed to the rough surface, biting on her skin. Her posture was one of surrender, yet her spine refused to bow. Bands of black iron circled her throat, chains wound the length of her body, shackles folded around ankle and wrist until her limbs felt redesigned in metal. Each breath rattled the chains like hollow bones. The air tasted of iron and rain that had never fallen; it carried the silence of altars and forgotten whispers.

Her hands blazed. Fire roared from beneath her skin—it was her fire; she knew it, felt it singing through her bones—but it betrayed her now, searing her palms, eating her fingers, crawling up her arms. The heat seared into the iron, which hissed and smoked and clamped tighter, as though that iron had bound her magic from flooding the world in flame.

She clenched her fists. Her jaw locked. She refused to scream.

From the darkness, a tall cloaked silhouette emerged—his stature too foreign, yet too familiar. As he walked slowly toward her, the power inside her pulsed, not from willingness. It did not ask permission; it rose like an answer to a summon she had not made.

A single drop of molten light fell from her fingertips to the ground, sizzling through the stone.

—

Anneliese’s eyes flew open, shattering the nightmare.

She jerked upright in bed, tangled in silken sheets, her heart pounding like war drums. Her chamber was quiet. Still. The air was cold, tasting faintly of dawn.

Beyond the glass, the sky was only just beginning to soften at its edges, a pale blue bleeding through the darkness. The moon still lingered, faint and white now, as if the red had only been a fevered illusion. A breeze stirred the curtains.

Only the echo of the terror lingered—heat beneath her skin, the memory of iron biting at her throat. Her hands were whole. Cool. Flameless. She forced them to move, and they found the curve of her throat, the hollow where a band had been.

Exhaling sharply, as if to drag the dread out with her breath, she got out of bed. Wrapping a cloak around her shoulders and slipping into her boots, she walked out of her chamber and moved toward Vincenzo’s.

Just as she stepped onto the adjacent corridor, she saw him—stepping out of his chamber, already dressed for the day.

And she realized it was time for her morning training.

Even from a distance, Vincenzo noticed her messy hair and sleepy eyes, filled with an unknown worry.

They moved toward each other, steps quiet against the stone, until they met in the middle of the corridor.

Vincenzo’s eyes lingered on her face, the faint crease of her brow, the restless shadows clinging to her gaze.

"What is it?" he asked, his voice low, unhurried.

Anneliese swallowed hard. The memory of the nightmare burned in her mind, the phantom weight of iron still at her throat. She wanted to shake her head, to say nothing and believe it, but she knew it was not just a dream.

"A nightmare," she said at last, her tone trembling more than she allowed. "I know it was not just a fragment of dream or illusion."

Then she told him what she had seen—every detail, every shadow from her sleep.

His expression shifted. His gaze flicked to her hands—as if expecting burns from her vision—before returning to her eyes. The silence stretched between them, heavy as the hush before a storm.

"One thing is certain," he said quietly. "Whatever you saw, it was not just a dream. Danger feels closer than we would like to think or admit."

He paused, stepping closer, his eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing every word of hers. "We cannot afford to ignore it—not even for a moment." Vincenzo reached for her hand, his voice carrying an urgency that was not unkind, yet he softened slightly, letting a flicker of warmth reach his eyes to calm her. "Moonflare must be waiting for us. Come with me—after your training, we will speak of it."

Anneliese let him lead her, though the unease of her vision clung to her skin like a second shadow.

They reached the clearing beyond the eastern walls of the castle, where Elowyn was waiting in her black leather. She did not look at Vincenzo as she addressed Anneliese.

"You are late." Her tone was even—neither sharp nor forgiving, only cool as stone. Without waiting for an explanation, she continued, her words clipped with precision.

"Yesterday, we began with awareness—learning to touch your spark, to feel its warmth before reaching for it. Today, we begin with control. Every wielder must learn to hold their power—or it will hold them. Now we move to the foundations of magic."

Anneliese nodded, steadying her breath, forcing the remnants of the dream to loosen their grip.

"There are a few skills every wielder must practice to gain hold of their power, rather than letting their power hold them. These skills improve with consistent effort and time, so do not fret if you cannot master them easily," Elowyn continued, her voice calm but unwavering, carrying the weight of one who had mastered it all long ago. "Incorporate them into your daily routine, not just during training. Use every spare moment, even when I am not watching."

The memory of chains and fire pressed close, but Ann pushed it down, tucking it behind the composure Elowyn demanded. The clearing smelled of dew and soil, the grass still damp beneath her boots.

Dawn was rising, pale light spilling across the trees and sliding over the stone. She fixed her gaze on Elowyn, letting discipline replace dread.

The darkness of her vision would not claim the day.