Chapter 43: The Immortal Sleeping Under the Capital

The door opens like a mouth that never learned to shut.

Cold air spills out, sharp and metallic. The light inside stays dim, like the room refuses to be seen. Runes crawl over the walls in slow pulses, and my skin prickles like I walked into static.

“Step in.”

My boots cross the threshold, and every instinct screams at me to back up.

“Of course.”

The ward looks like someone tried to build a prison for a god with a bureaucrat’s budget. Containment circles layer the floor, one inside another, drawn in silver that catches the light like fresh scars. Chain sigils hang in the air, not physical chains, but symbols that feel heavy anyway. Anti-teleport wards fill the corners, thick enough to taste, like the room has rules and it dares you to argue.

“This is dramatic.”

Beatrice glides in behind me, and the door shuts with a soft click that feels way too final.

“It is sufficient.”

My throat tightens, and I force myself to breathe slow. The air feels filtered, like even oxygen needs permission here. The silence hits different inside, not peaceful, just restrained, like the room is holding its breath.

“You built a cage.”

Beatrice walks past me like I’m a guest, then stops at the far end of the circles.

“We built a solution.”

I follow her line of sight, and my heart drops into my stomach.

“That’s him.”

The center holds a glass cylinder taller than two men, thick enough to stop a siege spell. Frost clings to the inside, not natural, not from cold, but from magic that refuses heat. A web of runes wraps the glass in layers, each one humming in a different tone.

“Yes.”

He floats in the middle like a sleeping statue. His hair drifts around his face, dark and soft, too clean for years. His skin stays pale, perfect, untouched. He looks like he fell asleep yesterday, even though my life has been bleeding forward without him.

“That’s not fair.”

Beatrice’s eyes don’t leave him. Her smile sits in place, casual, like she’s admiring a painting.

“Fairness is for children.”

My fingers twitch, and my nails scrape my palm. My chest hurts in a dumb way, like grief still thinks it can bargain.

“He looks younger than me.”

Beatrice’s voice turns almost fond, and that makes it worse.

“Time refuses him.”

I step closer, and the circles on the floor flare faintly, like they noticed me. The glass reflects my face back at me, and I look older, sharper, more tired. He looks like the version of us that never got dragged through the mud.

“Stop.”

Beatrice lifts her chin, and her gaze lands on me like a leash.

“Do not cross the third ring.”

I stop at the edge, because my body still knows how to obey threats. The air grows colder near the glass, and my breath fogs. My heartbeat feels loud, like it’s being counted.

“This is my brother.”

Beatrice’s smile twitches, like she enjoys the word brother more than she should.

“This is a strategic complication.”

My jaw tightens so hard my teeth ache.

“Don’t call him that.”

Beatrice’s tone stays light, like she’s teasing a friend.

“Do you prefer national catastrophe.”

I stare at her, and my rage wants to be clean and simple. It can’t, because she looks calm, and she brought me here, and part of me knows she’s trying to help in her own messed up way.

“Give him a name in your mouth.”

Beatrice’s eyes shift to me, and there’s something possessive in them, like she hates the idea that anyone else owns a piece of my past.

“He has a name.”

My throat feels tight, and the room feels smaller, like the word is trapped in my ribs.

“Say it.”

Beatrice’s smile goes sweet, and I hate her for it.

“Caelan.”

The name hits me like a punch. It drags air out of my lungs. I hadn’t said it in years out loud, not like this, not in a room that could hear it.

“Caelan.”

Beatrice nods, satisfied, like she just put a label on a file.

“Yes.”

I step closer again, and the circles brighten, warning me. The hum in the runes shifts pitch, like the room is tuning itself around my presence.

“My mana is reacting.”

Beatrice watches the glow, and her expression sharpens with interest.

“Your bloodline is reacting.”

My stomach twists, and my skin crawls, because I can feel it now. A pull under my ribs, like a hook in the center of my chest. My mana is weak, always has been, but it’s waking up anyway, twitching like it recognizes something it hates.

“It feels wrong.”

Beatrice’s voice drops, softer, more serious.

“It is wrong.”

The glass cylinder hums deeper, and the frost inside swirls, not random, but in slow spirals. My breath catches, because I swear the air inside the cylinder moves like it’s breathing.

“He’s not sleeping.”

Beatrice’s smile returns, and it’s that playful menace again.

“He is waiting.”

My hands shake once, and I force them still. I press my palm against my thigh, trying to ground myself. It doesn’t work, because the room itself feels like it’s pushing back.

“How long.”

Beatrice’s eyes flick to the runes, calculating.

“Long enough.”

I stare at Caelan’s face, and it’s still him. Same straight nose, same mouth that used to smirk when he won, same brow that always furrowed when he was thinking too hard. No scars, no cracks, no sign of time doing its job.

“He should have lines. He should have something.”

Beatrice’s voice turns almost amused.

“Stasis is polite.”

My mouth goes dry.

“Polite.”

Beatrice nods like she’s agreeing over tea.

“It preserves. It hides. It prevents.”

I swallow, and my tongue tastes like copper again.

“From what.”

Beatrice tilts her head, and her earrings catch the dim light like tiny blades.

“From reality.”

I flinch without meaning to, and my shoulder muscles tighten. I hate that word, reality, because it sounds like a joke in this room. The runes don’t care about reality. The circles don’t care. Beatrice doesn’t care.

“This should not exist.”

Beatrice’s smile softens, and for a second she looks almost sympathetic, like she’s letting me have one normal reaction.

“And yet it does.”

The hum spikes for a second, and my heartbeat stutters. The circles flash, then settle, like they just got nervous. I stare at Caelan’s eyelids, and my stomach drops.

“I saw that.”

Beatrice doesn’t move. Her voice stays calm.

“Describe it.”

His eyelid flickers, barely. Not a full movement, just a twitch, like a dream trying to break through. The frost inside the cylinder shivers, and the runes on the glass brighten, like they’re tightening their grip.

“His eye moved.”

Beatrice’s eyes gleam, like she’s watching a chess piece finally shift.

“Yes.”

My throat tightens, and my hands itch to do something stupid.

“That means he can hear.”

Beatrice’s tone turns almost tender, and that scares me more than her threats.

“It means he is aware.”

I step closer again, and the third ring flares bright enough to sting my eyes. Heat prickles along my skin, like the wards are warning me with pain.

“Let me in.”

Beatrice’s smile returns, sharp this time.

“No.”

I glare at her, because my anger needs a target.

“He’s my brother.”

Beatrice’s gaze locks on me, and her voice stays soft, like she’s soothing a dog with teeth.

“And you are my responsibility.”

My stomach flips, and my hands curl into fists.

“I’m not yours.”

Beatrice’s smile turns sweet again, and it feels like a blade wrapped in velvet.

“You are an asset with a pulse. That counts as mine here.”

I take a breath, and I taste cold metal. My heart pounds so hard it hurts. I want to punch something, and the only thing I can punch is the air.

“You brought me here to anchor the lock.”

Beatrice nods once.

“Among other things.”

I stare at the glass, and my reflection overlaps Caelan’s face. It makes me look like a ghost hovering over my own past.

“Tell me what he is.”

Beatrice’s eyes flick to the chain sigils floating above the cylinder.

“He is immortal.”

My stomach drops, and my skin crawls harder. The word feels too big for the room, too heavy for her casual tone. Immortal belongs in myths, in stories people tell to scare kids.

“That’s not real.”

Beatrice smiles, and her eyes gleam like she’s enjoying my denial.

“Tell the runes that.”

The hum shifts again, and the air inside the cylinder ripples. My mana twitches, weak but sharp, like a nerve touched raw. I feel it pulling toward him, then recoiling, like two magnets screaming at each other.

“He’s resonating with me.”

Beatrice’s voice goes quiet, almost satisfied.

“He recognizes you.”

I swallow, and my throat burns.

“I don’t want him to recognize me.”

Beatrice’s smile fades just a little, like she hears the truth in that.

“He will anyway.”

Caelan’s eyelid flickers again, stronger this time. The runes on the glass flare, then dim, like they’re adjusting pressure. The frost swirls in a tight spiral, and the hum deepens into something that feels like a low growl.

“He’s waking.”

Beatrice’s smile returns, and it’s playful, menacing, obsessed.

“Yes.”

My hands shake again, and I press my palm against the third ring boundary. The wards sting, and pain shoots up my arm, clean and sharp. The glass is right there, so close, and my body moves like it remembers.

“Let me touch it.”

Beatrice watches me, and her gaze turns hungry in a quiet way.

“You want to trigger the lock.”

I grit my teeth, because she’s right, and I hate it.

“I want to know he’s real.”

Beatrice steps closer, and her voice drops.

“He is real.”

I stare at Caelan’s face, and my chest aches like it’s splitting. He looks too perfect, too untouched. He looks like the world paused for him, then forgot to press play again.

“This is like a joke.”

Beatrice’s smile turns faint.

“It is a tragedy.”

I pull my hand back, and my fingers tremble. The pain lingers, like the ward left a warning in my skin.

“Why under the capital.”

Beatrice’s eyes flick to the ceiling, like she can see the whole city above us.

“Because every power wants to own him.”

My stomach twists.

“And you.”

Beatrice’s smile returns, and it’s almost proud.

“And me.”

I stare at her, and my paranoia screams louder. She is layered, helpful, terrifying, amused, and she’s standing beside my brother like she belongs there.

“What do you want from him.”

Beatrice’s voice stays calm, but the obsession hums under it.

“I want him contained.”

I blink, because that’s almost reasonable.

“That’s it.”

Beatrice’s smile widens, and it turns sharp again.

“And I want you compliant.”

I laugh once, bitter, then stop, because my voice sounds like it’s cracking.

“You’re really doing this right now.”

Beatrice lifts her hand, and the runes on the glass flare in response. It’s like the ward listens to her more than it listens to the world.

“This is always right now.”

Caelan’s eyelid flickers again, then his fingers twitch, just a little. The movement is so small it’s almost nothing, and it still feels like the room just tilted. The chain sigils above the cylinder pulse, tightening like invisible restraints.

“He moved.”

Beatrice’s smile is bright, and my stomach drops because it’s the kind of smile that means someone’s about to suffer.

“He is reaching.”

My pulse hammers, and the hum in the runes crawls into my bones. My mana reacts again, sharper, like it’s trying to wake too, like it’s trying to answer.

“He shouldn’t be able to move.”

Beatrice’s voice stays soft.

“He should not exist.”

I step closer, ignoring the third ring’s glow, stopping just shy of the pain line. My breath fogs the glass now. The cylinder feels like a wall between worlds, and I’m standing too close to the edge.

“Caelan.”

His eyelid twitches again, and for a heartbeat, I swear his eye opens a sliver, just enough to show darkness, just enough to feel seen. The runes flare so bright the room stutters, and the hum spikes into a sharp note that makes my teeth ache.

“Rian.”

My body freezes, because the voice is not Beatrice’s. It’s in the room and not in it, like sound got rewritten. The word hits my chest like a fist, familiar and wrong.

“That’s not possible.”

Beatrice’s smile widens, and her eyes shine like she’s watching fireworks.

“It is happening.”

My hand lifts without permission, like my muscles remember him before my brain does. My fingers hover inches from the glass, trembling, aching to confirm what my eyes can’t process.

“Don’t.”

I don’t listen. I can’t. My palm presses flat against the glass, and the cold bites deep, like it wants inside me.

“It’s him.”

The hum crashes through me, and my vision snaps sideways. The runes blur, the frost becomes sunlight, the cold becomes heat, and the glass becomes air.

The day smells like smoke and blood, and Caelan is laughing beside me like the world has never been allowed to hurt him.