To Bleed a Crystal Bloom by Sarah A. Parker

Castle Noir is brimming with secrets, but most of them are not my own. They’re Rhordyn’s or his ancient predecessors who are never talked about.

This one, however, belongs to me.

The door is old, the worn wood and rusted lock a testament to its age. A lock that was a terrible match for my hairpin and teeth-gritting determination when I first stumbled upon this place ten years ago.

I lift a flaming torch from one of the sconces and pry the door open. The darkness that pours out seems to howl at me, making my flame flicker as I peer into the throat of a gloomy passageway.

Whispers.

Though this entire castle is ancient, this place somehow feels more so. Like the floor felt the wear of decades of feet before the door was locked, the passage forgotten.

At least until I came along.

I step into the hallway and use the flaming beacon to light the first sconce, illuminating a section of my masterpiece.

This place curls into the moody guts of the castle, but I’m not sure how far down. The further you go, the more oppressive the darkness gets.

The colder it gets.

I’ve yet to make it to the end.

I walk fifteen steps into the sweeping hallway that digs into the earth before igniting the second sconce, illuminating the wall to my left and giving lustrous life to another section of my mosaic.

It’s taken me the better part of ten years to paint this mural, stone by stone, each a separate work of art. Small, whispered stories I’ve brushed on the rocks that piece together and form bigger, overriding pictures I often try to ignore.

I keep going, igniting more sconces, the air temperature dropping so much the fifth barely gifts me enough glow to work with. I walk until I’m standing on the precipice between shadow and light, staring into an ocean of black that looks like it could swallow me whole.

Dropping to my knees, I lay the torch next to me and open my bag, digging past the squeaking mouse to a stone wrapped in cheesecloth to protect the whisper from getting damaged during transport.

I unwrap the layers and trace the delicate brushstrokes that make up a young boy sitting cross-legged on the ground, surrounded by a bed of black blooms. White sparkles decorate his eyes, and his hair is a twisted mess.

He’s reaching, fingers forever stretched, and though I have no idea what he’s extending toward, he looks happy. Like a bubble of laughter waiting to pop.

A sad sort of smile flirts with the corner of my lips.

I retrieve my jar of homemade mortar, untwist the lid, and bore a pallet knife into the muck. The gap in the wall is right in front of me, and I sweep the substance around the hole before pressing the whisper into place.

Leaning back, I study what I can see of the whole picture from down here at the edge of the light.

That’s the thing about this place: no matter where you’re positioned, you’ll never see the full story at once. Just segments of it you have to piece together in your mind.

Given the bigger, overriding images I’ve immortalized on the wall, I’ve always thought that more a blessing than a curse.

Nodding, I rummage through my bag and retrieve a diamond pickaxe, eyeing up my next target half-sheathed in shadow ...

The only rock not entirely eaten up by the hungry darkness.

Whatever I paint on it will only ever be half visible, and although there’s something poetic about that, it also signifies the end of an era. Unless I somehow manage to light the next sconce, I’ll have to start on the opposite wall or give up altogether, and I’m not sure how I feel about any of those options.

I rise onto my knees and start tapping at the mortar, cleaving the rock from its shell. It loosens a little, and one more knock sends it falling into my awaiting hand like a lump of shadow.

The entire castle is made from the same ebony stone; some rooms hewn straight from the side of the mountain. Other areas, like this passageway, have been built with bits of it—none larger than two of my fists pressed together.

I bag the rock and stand, spearing my gaze into the gloom ...

Maybe it’s time to try again.

I pluck the torch off the ground, draw a deep breath, then slide my foot over the flickering line.

It only takes two beats of my heart before the fire starts to sputter, but I carry on ... pushing further.

Deeper.

With each echoing step, my dancing bulb of light shrinks a little more, yielding to the plummeting temperature that’s turning my breath white.

I time my steps with every exhale, sweat breaking out across the back of my neck despite the biting chill ...

Surely the next sconce is only a few steps away ...

Step, breathe.

Step, breathe.

Step, breathe.

My flame sputters, lungs falter, and I pause ... letting my next breath leak out of me in a milky haze that somehow still snuffs the torch entirely, plunging me into a sea of darkness.

I forget how to move. How to breathe or think or blink.

The torch clatters to the ground and seems to bounce and bounce and bounce, like it’s descending a flight of stairs. The echoing assault shoves me into action, and I pivot, racing toward the promise of light, every hair on the back of my neck standing on end as if something is watching me flee.

When I finally merge with the light, I spin, collapsing against the unpainted wall—chest tight, lungs battling for space, heart catapulting little bolts of fire through my veins.

“You win again,” I rasp, throwing the darkness a side-eye.